


Interstitial Space

by athena_crikey



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, M/M, Mutual Attraction, Rating May Change, Romance, Secrets, h/c, snarking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-07 16:59:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16412381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Against all odds, Ichigo’s finding himself attracted to the frankly bizarre man beside him. He’s thoughtful, perceptive, and ridiculously handsome under the bucket hat. Although the reminder of his work – mad scientist under Dr Frankenstein – is chilling.





	1. Office Gossip

“I’m fucking _starving_.” Lt. Abarai Renji kicks his feet up on the Mazda’s dash and lets his head loll back over the headrest. 

Beside him his subordinate – and what a joke _that_ is – makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat. 

“What? It’s not your car.” Renji rolls his head to the side to consider his driver. Kurosaki Ichigo graduated in the middle of his class at the Academy and has since moved up the ranks from officer to detective, but on paper he’s still far from the lofty heights of lieutenanthood. 

In reality, he could blow half the station out the door without effort. If he weren’t so buttoned down. _Repressed_ , thinks Renji. And then, _the asshole_ – because if _he_ had the reiatsu to take down half the lieutenants in the Squad, he’d sure as hell be gunning for a captaincy. 

“Manners like that, you’re never going to get anywhere with Rukia,” replies Ichigo. “And if you’re so hungry, why don’t you go grab a couple of onigiri from the conbini? We’re going to be here a while.”

 _Here_ is a warehouse in Karakura, waiting for a shipment to come in by van. They’ve heard from the snouts that tonight’s cargo is going to be hot. So they’re tucked away outside in a dingy Mazda fifteen years off the showroom floor that they borrowed from Vice. It smells of socks and cigarette smoke. 

“And leave you all alone to blow something up again?”

“It was just one time,” replies Ichigo repressively. His eyebrows twitch. “Anyway, they’re not due for another hour.”

“Alright, but for fuck’s sake wait if they do come back. I don’t want to get my ass handed to me by the captain again.”

Ichigo gives a cocky salute, and Renji steps out into the cold night air to go in search of pre-packaged food.

  
***

Ichigo doesn’t mind being alone. Ever since his mom died, his dad has pressed himself doubly close (some might say, _suffocatingly_ close) to make up for her absence. Together with the presence of two loving sisters, it’s meant that at home, personal space is at a premium. That didn’t change when he finished school and moved straight into the Academy dorm; the students had been in and out of one another’s rooms constantly, doors banging open at all hours, rummaging through each other’s belongings to borrow textbooks and notes. It had been fun, but he’s always had a deep-seated yearning for his own quiet space. At least Uryuu is freakishly introverted; as a roommate, he’s barely noticeably except for the odd time Ichigo’s stepped on one of his pins.

Entering the Metropolitan Police Soul Squad hadn’t been a hard decision. He’s always had a high spiritual awareness; as the child of a former captain and a practitioner it had been expected. What they hadn’t been able to teach him was how to live with the constant presence of the dead – and the flack he got from his schoolmates because of it. He’s learned not to give a shit what anyone else thinks, and to work to his own standards. He has no aspiration to be a captain – all they do is paperwork. And lieutenants are sandwiched between looking after their subordinates and their captains. 

He’s happy as a plain detective. He gets to meet interesting people – even if half of them are dead.

  
***

The shipment comes in around 2am, a black panelled van with three men to unload it. Renji and Ichigo burst in, swords raised, and it’s all over very quickly.

Ichigo borrows a crowbar and levers open one of the containers. It’s filled with Pez-like dispensers containing round white pills. “The hell is this?” he asks. 

They had been expecting black market asauchis, or at the very least some of the new kido-reproducing bokutos. Drugs is not their deal. But these don’t look like any drugs Ichigo has ever seen. 

“Looks like we’re taking a trip,” says Renji, who has just finished cuffing the last of the three men. Ichigo turns to give him a querying look. “Unit 12,” elaborates Renji.

“Fuck,” says Ichigo.

  
***

No one likes Unit 12. They’re secluded in an underground basement-cum-laboratory, and rarely visited by the rest of the Soul Squad. They deal in R&D, tinkering with the new toys that come onto the black market to see what makes them tick, and occasionally also sit in on the stranger autopsies. Their captain is creepy as hell.

“Don’t worry,” says Renji, who knows Ichigo’s feelings on the matter. “Kurotsuchi doesn’t work the night shift.”

“There’s someone worse than him?” asks Ichigo, passing a hand over his face and pulling it into a scowl. The night shift usually represents the dregs of any unit. The two of them rarely work nights; tonight is a special assignment from the captain. Ichigo’s still trying to figure out exactly what Renji did to piss him off. 

Renji doesn’t have a chance to reply; they’ve come to the bottom of the concrete staircase. In front of them is a set of double doors, a neat metal plaque overhead reads, simply: Unit 12. The doors are institutional blue with thin wire-covered windows inset – _horror chic_ , thinks Ichigo. Renji swipes his pass over the card reader and, when it flashes green, pushes the doors open. 

The space beyond is practically the size of a gymnasium. It’s divided into smaller work units by tall cabinets and long lab tables, while along the walls mysterious things float in jars. Only the closest half is lit; obviously Unit 12 runs on a skeleton staff at 2am. 

There is, in fact, only one person in the lab. He’s standing with his back to them wearing a white lab-coat, geta and stripped hat; a bizarre look for a lab rat. It can’t possibly be HAZMAT compliant. He’s doing something with a petri dish and a pipette, an enormous microscope standing on the desk beside him. 

Renji clears his throat. 

The man turns towards them – he’s tall and impossibly blond, with an unshaven chin and ash-grey eyes – and _smiles_. It’s the kind of smile that cannot possibly be natural, that can only be a front for something.

It makes something tickle in Ichigo’s chest.  
“Abarai-san,” he says, putting down his pipette and coming forwards. “And…?” he glances at Ichigo inquiringly. The man’s wearing green jinbei under his lab coat, like he just stepped out of the house to pick up the mail. Weird.

Ichigo gives himself a mental shake and manages a half-assed nod. “Kurosaki Ichigo.”

“Pleased to meet you. Something for me?” he asks, looking down at the large cardboard box of confiscated merchandise Ichigo is holding. He has the air of a man who’s just been given an early Christmas present. 

“Seems like.” He hauls the box up onto the nearest counter and strips off the piece of tape holding it shut. “Picked these up tonight on a black market bust. We were expecting something more…”

“Normal,” offers Renji.

“How delightful.” The man in the laboratory coat comes forward to look inside the box. His expression doesn’t change, but Ichigo sees recognition in his eyes. “Ah,” he says, picking up one of the small dispensers and popping a white pill into the palm of his hand.

“What is it?” asks Renji.

“I will need to do some tests to be sure. But it _looks_ like a mod soul.”

Ichigo frowns. “A what now?”

The man inserts the ball back into the dispenser and carefully places it on the counter. “They were created some time back in an effort to grant Soul Squad officers added physical prowess – to make stronger fighters of you,” he says with a crooked smile. “They were very much trumpeted; everyone expected great things of them.”

“And then?” asks Ichigo, glancing down at the box on the counter.

He tips his hat back, lightening the shadow it casts over his eyes a fraction. For all the easy-going amused air he’s projecting, his eyes are serious. “And then it was discovered that in addition to having the effect of enhancing a person’s abilities, they in fact had personalities of their own. Some early testers developed dangerous split-personalities, while others were totally overwhelmed by the persona of the mod soul. Needless to say, the project was scrapped.”

“No shit,” says Renji. “So why the demand for them?”

“Oh, there are always a few power-hungry maniacs around,” says the lab rat easily. He’s produced a white paper fan from his pocket and bats it playfully. Ichigo’s starting to get a sense of why this oddball is on the night shift. He doesn’t usually have a lot of patience for jokers, but this one has been surprisingly informative. There’s something about him that attracts Ichigo’s attention – some half-hidden quality to his smile. “Hubris is so common, don’t you think? There are always those willing to believe that side-effects won’t apply to _them_.”

“But what happens to the mod souls? You said they had their own personalities.” Ichigo frowns. The scientist’s eyes slant in his direction, showing a flash of surprise. 

“They are in hibernation. They feel nothing.”

It seems a very convenient answer. But for the moment, he doesn’t press. “Can you identify them?” he asks, tapping the box.

“Of course. They came from this lab.” 

Ichigo feels himself goggling. He’s aware, of course, that Unit 12 develops its own inventions – and has for as long as the Soul Squad’s existed. He’s used some of them himself: the memory-modifier, the tracker cellphone, the flying cloak. He’s even wondered about their less ethical work – has heard rumours ranging from probable to wildly impossible about the current captain’s experiments. 

He just hadn’t expected to be confiscating a box of their illegal products during a street bust. 

“Great. You can do the report,” says Renji, slinging his arm over Ichigo’s shoulders. “We should be going.”

“What’s your name?” blurts out Ichigo, to Renji’s clear puzzlement. “To route the paperwork,” he elaborates.

“Didn’t I mention? Urahara. Urahara Kisuke.” He smiles gently, grey eyes watching Ichigo. 

“Right. Thanks.” Ichigo elbows Renji off him, turns, and strides out. 

It’s doubtless just the chilling nature of Unit 12 that’s given him butterflies in his stomach.

  
***

“Got a bit star-struck back there,” jokes Renji as they jog back up the stairs. The quicker they get out of here, the quicker they can get back to their beds. Ichigo glances at him repressively, feeling his cheeks flushing – hopefully invisibly in the dark stairwell.

“No. Why?”

“Don’t you know Urahara-san?” asks Renji, looking over at him.

Ichigo frowns. “I clearly don’t.”

Renji throws back his head and laughs. “Man, you’ve _got_ to start paying attention to the gossip mill. I’ll put you on a text chain or two. Open your eyes.”

“I don’t need my eyes opened,” grouses Ichigo.

“If that were true, you’d know who Urahara Kisuke-san is.”

“Alright then, who is he already?”

“The former captain of Unit 12.”

Ichigo stops, staring. Renji pushes out the doors leading to the parking lot and then seems to realise he’s lost his subordinate. He turns back and sees Ichigo’s reaction. His mouth splits into a wicked grin.

“ _This_ is why you need to be on my text chains.”

“What the _hell_ is the former captain of Unit 12 doing down in the basement at 2 in the morning, dressed like he just got home from a festival?”

Renji smiles. “Now you’re starting to ask the right questions. As far as the rumour mill knows, he was summarily dismissed a decade ago and replaced by Kurotsuchi. For what, I don’t know.”

“Making pills that gives people multiple personality disorder?” suggests Ichigo darkly. Still, it’s strange. Urahara hadn’t looked any older than forty at the outside. To have been a captain at younger than thirty wasn’t unheard of for those with strong spiritual power, but it was unusual. Especially for one heading up a mostly academic unit. 

“Could be. He’s always been pleasant as can be, but that smile…”

Ichigo doesn’t have to be reminded of it. It’s still lingering in his memory.

  
***

The shipment _does_ turn out to be of mod souls, and they’re given a brief congratulations on their efforts by Captain Kuchiki, who doesn’t go in for long speeches. Renji carries through on his threat to add Ichigo to his gossip chains, resulting in Ichigo’s phone nearly vibrating itself off the desk. In a couple of days, he’s learnt far more than he wants to know about the sex lives, promotions and demotions of the officers surrounding him.

There are no further updates, however, on Urahara Kisuke.

  
***

Ichigo’s day off rolls around; he makes the trip across Karakura to have lunch with Yumichika and Ikkaku over in the 11th, then wanders out to pick up some beer, the fridge at the apartment having run out (Uryuu drinks only shochu and whisky, and refuses to stock Ichigo’s Kirin).

While he’s out, he spots a small retail shop on the other side of the street whose sign reads Urahara Shoten. It’s a coincidence, surely. It’s not as though Urahara is an unusual name. And the idea of a former captain being associated with a corner shop selling smokes and girly magazines is boggling.

Or would be, except for the tall blond figure he sees come out the door and head down the street. Towards Ichigo. 

Urahara’s wearing the same geta-boushi combination as he had in the lab, along with jinbei and a dark haori. The guy has no sense of fashion. He would look good – better than good – in jeans and a tight shirt. Instead he just looks like a frumpy grandpa. 

Except for his eyes. There’s something sharp there, a sense of razor-edged intelligence and a wicked mind. The kind of eyes that hint at hidden depths a kilometer deep.

Urahara looks up and sees him, weighted down by two cases of beer and staring across the street like a deer in the headlights rather than a fully-trained detective. 

“Kurosaki-san,” he cries joyfully, crossing the street. He’s carrying a cane, Ichigo sees, which he is making no use of. But Ichigo’s been on enough illegal arms busts to recognize a Shikomizue when he sees one.

Officers aren’t supposed to carry swords off-duty, and he wasn’t aware that Unit 12 carried them at all. _Interesting._

“Do you know when our products will be returned?” asks Urahara, eyes glancing up and down Ichigo curiously – as though he’s never seen a man on his day off hauling a load of beer before. 

“They’re needed as evidence – it will be sometime after the court date. Not for a few months. But there’s no use for them, is there?”

“No, no,” agrees the scientist casually, wagging his head. “Just a natural instinct to take care of my responsibilities.”

“Are they yours?” asks Ichigo, with an intensity that surprises him.

Urahara looks back thoughtfully. “That depends. They were a product of my unit – so yes. Did I develop them? No.” He tilts his head to the side, clearly considering Ichigo. “I haven’t seen you around here before – why don’t you come in for a cup of tea.”

“I should really be going,” Ichigo begins, without moving. The cases of beer are digging into his hip, growing heavier by the minute.

He doesn’t need to get involved in Unit 12. They deal in formaldehyde and corpses (not souls), and get up to weird shit that puts the rest of the Soul Squad’s efforts related to the unnatural to shame. And even if Urahara wasn’t involved in the creation of pills that _rend psyches_ , he’s the unit’s former captain – it’s not possible to get a lot closer to their business than that and he wants no part of it.

“Nonsense. Just a cup.” Urahara insists, smiling. “You can tell me what you think of my shop.”

Ichigo glances across the street at the wooden storefront. It looks like a Meiji-era survival. Like Urahara himself. And yet, despite his massive oddness, there’s something magnetic about him. _He’s the kind of person_ , thinks Ichigo, _who makes things happen._

“Right…” he says, without a firm understanding of what he’s agreeing to or why. He shifts the beer to his other hip and crosses the street with Urahara. The former captain unlocks the door and pushes it open with a wooden rattle. 

“My assistant is out picking up a shipment,” he explains, stepping inside. 

The store is tiny, just one room that’s roughly the size of Ichigo’s bedroom. It’s bisected by sloping wooden shelves holding snacks, candy, magazines, cup ramen and various other cheap goods, all of slightly higher quality than those found in a conbini. At the far end there’s a raised step up into the back of the store, which looks to lead into Urahara’s house. There’s a smell of musty tatami and mosquito coils. 

He puts his load of beer down on the tatami step and shoves his hands in his pockets. Urahara waves at his wares. “What do you think?” he asks, as though he were showing Ichigo the panorama from the Tokyo Skytree rather than a view of a dingy shop that probably sees more gejigeji than customers. 

“It’s homey,” says Ichigo, rocking back on his heels. 

Urahara bestows him with a pleased smile. “I’ll make the tea.” He steps out of his geta up onto the tatami and pads off through the doorway leading into the house. Ichigo takes a seat, wondering if the ex-captain of Unit 12 is this friendly with everyone or whether he’s been singled out for some purpose – and if so what?

Urahara is gone about five minutes, during which time Ichigo gets up to flip through some magazines and consider picking up some ramen to go with his beer. When Urahara comes back in with two cups of steaming tea on a tray, Ichigo’s just picking through the possible cups. 

“The kitsune udon is particularly good,” says Urahara, putting down the tray and taking a seat. Ichigo looks down to see that’s the one he’s holding. He puts it back on the shelf and steps over to join the scientist. 

The tea is hot and fragrant, a mellow green colour in the grey porcelain cups. It warms his hands, even on this hot summer afternoon.

“Tell me about your work,” says Urahara after they’ve both had opportunity to sample the tea. “Abarai-san is in Unit 6, I believe. Which means…?”

“I am too.” Ichigo shrugs. “It’s nothing new. Illegal goods rackets, spiritual witnesses, the occasional hollow destruction.” 

“A nice variety,” says Urahara politely. 

“And you work for Unit 12,” he replies, inexpressively. 

Urahara looks up, eyes glinting. “Is that the best you can do? You’re a detective, aren’t you?”

“You mean, do you I know that you used to run the place? Yeah, I know.” Ichigo takes an unconcerned sip of his tea. Urahara smiles. 

“Very good. I had a feeling you would be interesting.”

“Because of my reiatsu,” says Ichigo, flatly. Between that and his hair, he’s always been _interesting_. First to bullies, then to unimpressed teachers, then in the Academy to adoring girls (and some boys). None of them have ever bothered to getting to know him for himself.

“Well, it does make it easy to know when you’re coming down the street,” says Urahara, smiling – and Ichigo finds himself suddenly wondering if running into the scientist was really a coincidence. “But no. I’m not interested in your spiritual strength, Kurosaki-san. What interested me was your concern for the mod souls. No one’s ever asked about them before – only the hosts they’re introduced to.”

Ichigo blinks. It’s not the response he was expecting, not by a long shot. “What will happen to them?” he asks, resting his tea cup on his knee. “They won’t be…”

“Destroyed? No. They will be kept in storage – a safer one than previously.”

“In hibernation,” says Ichigo, frowning. The idea of being held in limbo forever, or until summarily destroyed, makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He’s aware of Urahara watching him, and stares right back. 

“Unless some other solution can be found, yes.”

“Couldn’t they use gigais?” False bodies are used mostly for spirits – invisible to all but those with high reiatsu – to provide witness in court cases. 

Urahara tilts his head to the side. “We can consider it,” he says. But his sharp eyes are impressed. “It would bring its own challenges.”

“More than you’ve created by churning out sentient body-snatching pills?” Ichigo asks, with irony. “Sentient body-snatching pills that the black market has gotten a hold of,” he adds. 

Urahara taps his finger on the rim of his cup. “That,” he says, “is an interesting point. One which has already been made to Mayuri-san.” He doesn’t refer to him as Captain Mayuri, which is interesting in its own right. 

“Do your products often grow legs and walk away?”

Urahara gives him a wide smile. “If they did, you would _certainly_ have noticed by now, Kurosaki-san.”

Ichigo doesn’t know how to feel about that. Against all odds, he’s finding himself attracted to the frankly bizarre man beside him. He’s thoughtful, perceptive, and ridiculously handsome under the bucket hat. But the reminder of his work – mad scientist under Dr Frankenstein – is chilling. 

“What is it you do?” he asks.

Urahara waves a bored hand. “Investigate confiscated devices and update Squad equipment, mostly.”

“And what was it you used to do. As captain?”

“That,” says Urahara, eyes shining wickedly, “is classified.”

Ichigo drowns the dregs of his tea. He’s starting to worry that if he stays much longer, he’ll make a fool of himself one way or another. He sets down the cup. “I really do have to go. Thanks for the tea.”

Urahara gives him a wave as he heads towards the door. “You’re welcome, Kurosaki-san. Come back some time.”

  
***

Two nights later they’re out after dark again, only this time they’re not alone.

Half the Squad resources in Tokyo are flying through the streets, hunting their prey like packs of wolfhounds. They’re sleek in their black uniforms, only the pommels of their swords and the white piping of their jackets shining in the poor light. They’re after hollows.

Renji and Ichigo are in Karakura’s Mitsumiya district, driving down dark alleyways after part of a massive influx of the creatures. They usually come in spurts – one or two of them at a time, sneaking in through the divide between worlds. But a tear in the foundation has let through a whole host of hollows, too many for Onmitsukido alone to handle. Units 12 and 13 have been dispatched to deal with the tear, while the rest of them are scrambling on damage control.

Although every member of the Soul Squad is trained to deal with hollows, their disposal is usually left to Onmitsukido unless random fate lands one in an officer’s lap. Renji’s killed a few himself, shattering their white bone masks with Zabimaru’s wicked blade. He’s not worried about tonight’s fracas. Beside him in the driver’s seat Ichigo has both hands on the wheel, eyes flickering between the dash and the mirrors. He’s speeding, but not by much – the alleyways are too tight for recklessness. 

“There,” snaps Renji, pointing to the side, at the same time that Ichigo hits the brakes. He turns smoothly and chases after the small hoard of hollows Renji saw dart across the road. In the headlights, their white skin practically glows. 

There’s a dead end up ahead; the hollows skid to a stop and Ichigo decelerates while simultaneously reaching into the back seat for Zangetsu. The immense sword is out of place most everywhere, including the detective’s tiny Honda Fit, but he manages to maneuver it around the seat. The car has only barely come to a stop before he’s out the door, engine still running, Renji still fishing Zabimaru out of the back. Ichigo’s reiatsu flares as he charges, the air crackling. 

Zangetsu wasn’t made for fighting in confined spaces though, and if it comes to it neither was Zabimaru. The two blades do best where there’s plenty of room for wide swings and savage swipes. Ichigo strikes down two of the five hollows, then gets his blade hopelessly stuck in the sheet of corrugated metal covering a closed shop and his momentum grinds to a halt. 

Renji releases Zabimaru’s shikai, but two of the hollows have already torn into Ichigo’s side. Ichigo blasts one with a low-level hado and kicks the other away even as Zabimaru roars onto the scene and slices through their bloodless skin. It’s only moments before the remaining three are destroyed.

Ichigo’s not a fool – although beaten and bloody, he protected his vital spots. His black jacket is torn over the ribs, the white piping turning crimson, and he has an ugly gash on his forehead. _Looks worse than it is_ , judges Renji. The head wound could lead to a concussion. The blood will be hard to get out of his uniform – it’s probably a lost cause. 

Ichigo gives a half-hearted tug at his sword, still stuck firmly in the door as though in a vise, and groans. He totters on his feet and raises a hand to wipe the blood out of his eyes – he looks surprised at the bloody mess on the back of his hand. 

“We’d better get you to a clinic,” says Renji. He knows better than to touch Zangetsu; zanpaku-tos are deeply personal: a piece of one’s soul made manifest. 

“I would be happy to oblige,” says a voice from behind the Fit. Renji turns, hand on Zabimaru’s grip, and sees Urahara Kisuke standing in the alleyway with his signature smile plastered on his face. 

Renji stares. This is the last place he had expected to encounter the former captain of the 12th. The man’s wearing a dark haori with white diamonds picked out along the hem that look bloody in the car’s taillights. He’s carrying a Shikomizue. 

“What are you doing here, Urahara-san? I thought Unit 12 was dealing with the rip.”

“Oh, I live in the neighbourhood. I heard the ruckus and thought I might be of assistance – it’s my night off.” He steps over to where Ichigo is sweating and cursing over his blade and, very neatly, inserts his cane into the tear beside Zangetsu. 

“Awaken, Benihime!” The cane shifts into a crook-hafted blade; Urahara gives it a neat twist that widens the metallic tear. Zangetsu slips out neat as a fish through water, and clatters on the cement floor when Ichigo fails to adjust for its weight. Ichigo stumbles, and Urahara catches his arm. 

In his bare feet Urahara probably has about an inch on the detective, but in his geta he towers over him. He seals his sword, tucks it under his arm, and helps Ichigo straighten. 

Ichigo tries to push him away. “You’ll just get blood on you,” he mumbles, head down. Clearly concussed. 

“Nonsense,” proclaims Urahara. “We wear black for a reason.” He tugs Ichigo along. “I’ll take him to my shop. It’s just around the corner. Urahara Shoten. Perhaps you could park the car, Abarai-san.”

Although no longer a captain, it’s clear he has no problem giving orders. They’re already heading down the alley, leaving Renji no choice but to obey.

  
***

After parking the car he enters the shop. The front door is unlocked, and although the lights are off enough illumination is seeping through from a doorway at the back to guide him. He steps through the small retail area, toes off his shoes beside Ichigo’s black loafers and Urahara’s geta, and steps up onto the tatami.

The back doorway leads to a hallway running through the house; Renji pads past a dark front room and a kitchen and into a large old-fashioned room with a plain wooden roof and tatami floors. Ichigo is slumped on the floor, his head hanging low and his jacket and shirt off. Urahara is beside him; green healing kido flows out from under his pale hands. 

“You look terrible,” Renji tells his detective, squatting down beside him. In truth, he doesn’t look that bad – a few shallow cuts across his ribs, and the head wound. The bleeding has already slowed substantially thanks to Urahara’s first aid, the swelling beginning to abate. 

Ichigo grunts. His eyes are closed, head turned towards the former captain to let the full strength of his healing energy wash over his wounds. 

Not many officers bother to learn kaido – with Unit 4 devoted to healing any unnatural injuries, only those destined for its ranks tend to bother picking up much beyond a standard hang-over reducer. But Urahara’s hands are steady and sure, the green light of his power stable and strong. His expression, warmed by the glow of his reiatsu, is careful – focused. When he’s done, the wounds on Ichigo’s chest have vanished, and his head abrasion is merely a bruise. 

“He still shouldn’t drive for the next few hours,” Urahara tells Renji, rubbing his hands together, while Ichigo slowly blinks into a more coherent state. 

“I’ll take him home,” agrees Renji.

“’M fine,” protests Ichigo, trying to glare and achieving only a shifty look. 

“Yeah; can’t say the same of your uniform.” He picks up Ichigo’s discarded jacket and holds it up; it’s torn right through, and stained with blood both at the front and the sleeve. “This one’s a write-off.”

He glances at Urahara. The former captain is sitting looking quietly amused. His eyes are on Ichigo – and Renji suddenly realises that they’ve never left him, even when the ex-captain was talking to Renji. _Something going on here_ , thinks Renji, and wonders how he feels about it. A collegial connection to Unit 12 is not necessarily a bad thing. Something more than that…

“We should get going,” says Renji. He taps Ichigo on the elbow. “Are you going to need to be carried home?” he asks, only partially facetiously. Ichigo bats his hand away. 

“I told you, I’m fine,” he says, with more certainty this time. It still takes Urahara’s hand steadying his shoulder for him to stand. He looks down at his discarded clothes with puzzlement. 

“I’ll take care of them, Kurosaki-san,” says Urahara gently.

Ichigo looks at him and _beams_. 

_It’s the concussion_ , thinks Renji. And then, _Or God help us both._


	2. A Moth to Flame

Ichigo wakes up with a headache and a vague memory of teeth scraping against his ribs. He sits up sharply, sending a bolt of pain through his temple.

He’s in his bed wearing just his boxers, summer sun soaking in through the window to pool on the covers. The bedside clock reads 10:45. Shit. He grabs his phone and sees texts waiting. Scrolls through them as he throws his legs over the side of the bed. They’re from Renji:

_DON’T come in today.  
In case you don’t remember, you got gnawed on by a hollow last night.   
Urahara-san fixed you up. _  
And finally:  
 _You two seemed very friendly._

Ichigo tosses his phone away in disgust. Those gossip chains have clearly melted Renji’s brain. 

He gets up and walks over to his mirror, where he considers his reflection. There’s an ugly bruise on his forehead just above his left eye – he has a sudden memory of wiping away wet blood, of the sick feeling of its damp heat on the back of his hand. There’s no mark on his abdomen, no sign of the scrapes that he vaguely remembers crossing his ribs. 

He remembers _warmth_ , comforting and pleasant as the touch of the sun. Remembers Urahara’s long hands hovering over him, bathed in the firefly-green glow of kaido. Remembers feeling safe and secure in the home of a man he’d only met twice before – and really, what the hell was that about? 

Growing up in the house of a former cop and a murdered mother, he had safety drilled into his head from a young age. He rebelled at the ridiculousness of it by the time he was a teenager – they lived in one of the safest countries in the world, after all – but by then the damage was done. Even today, he has trouble sleeping with strangers in the vicinity – can’t nod off on the bus or the train like the salarymen and college kids he’s surrounded by. Has trouble with trust. 

And yet, he’d been perfectly happy for a stranger to heal him up, half-naked and concussed, in his out-dated home. Hadn’t felt even a twinge of apprehension. 

Had, in fact, felt safe. 

He glances back towards his phone, slowly crosses the room and picks it up. _You two seemed very friendly._ The text message hovers under his fingers, dripping with not very subtle insinuation. 

The problem, if he’s honest, is that it’s true. This is not just another of Renji’s idiotic fantasies – a demented attempt to pair Ichigo up with Zaraki Kenpachi ( _you’d be good for him_ ) or Matsumoto Rangiku ( _she’d be good for you_ ). Renji treats Ichigo’s stagnant love life like a game of fantasy baseball – an ongoing, unending source of amusement only tangentially related to real life. Usually, Ichigo puts up with it; his love life is a joke. 

Or at least, it always has been. Up until now.

After another moment of ruminating on his phone, he puts it down, pulls a t-shirt and jeans from his dresser, and goes to take a quick shower. He still has dried blood in his hair and on his skin. And that’s about the last look he wants to present at Urahara Shoten.

  
***

The shop is open, which Ichigo finds a little surprising given that Urahara was roaming the streets in the early hours of the morning, mopping up after Unit 6’s brash hollow encounters.

It’s explained when he walks in the door. Instead of Urahara sitting cheerfully on the tatami step, the store is minded by a hulking giant of a man, whose upper arms are wider than Ichigo’s thighs and whose pecs strain against the confines of his shirt. He’s wearing a blue apron with the character _Ura_. He has a box of curry roux packs in his hands and is in the middle of unloading the green and blue packages onto a shelf. He turns as Ichigo enters.

“Welcome.” He has an immense moustache – like a walrus, Ichigo thinks vaguely. 

“Hey.” He makes a pretext of scanning the shop as though interested in purchasing something, and then caves. “Where’s Urahara-san?” he says, in what he hopes is a neutral tone.

The giant turns slowly to consider the back room. “He should be here soon,” he rumbles. “What’s your name?”

“Kurosaki Ichigo.”

“I’ll see if he’s available.” He puts the box of roux down on top of one of the shelves, then steps up into the house and disappears. Ichigo picks up a magazine, flipping idly through its glossy pages. 

His rusty manners tell him that perhaps he should have brought some kind of thank you gift. But fuck it, he’s not a girl on Valentine’s Day, he’s one officer taking the time to appreciate another officer’s execution of duty. If Urahara even is an officer – his status, Ichigo realises, is unclear. But what kind of consultant or technician would be permitted to remain alone in Unit12’s lab – or to carry a sword?

He’s frowning heavily, deep in thought, when the shoji door to the house slides back open. “Kurosaki-san!” crows Urahara, stepping down. “Good to see Abarai-san gave you the day off.”

Ichigo replaces the magazine on the rack. “Lucky, too, or I’d’ve been seriously late.” He rubs absently at his bruised forehead; it throbs under the pressure. “I wanted to thank you. For last night. I’d still be in the alley with Zangetsu stuck in that door if it wasn’t for you.”

“Oh, I’m sure your lieutenant would have found a solution eventually,” says Urahara easily. He produces a white fan from his sleeve and flaps it coyly. “But I was glad to be of help.”

“It did help – I didn’t have to go to Unit 4. They already know me by my first name there – they think I’m reckless,” he adds.

“Charging into a narrow alleyway with a sword the size of yours doesn’t seem the most effective way to prove them wrong,” suggests Urahara. 

Ichigo runs a hand through his hair, shrugging. “Should’ve gone in with kido alone. But Zangetsu gets bored. Really bored. We don’t see a lot of hollows in our line. You must understand that.” Zanpaku-tos are made to fight; they’re bloodthirsty by nature and find gathering dust on a shelf tantamount to torture. He can’t imagine enduring his blade’s endless complaints and threats were he to take a desk job. And Urahara spends his time split between a lab bench and a corner store.

“Must I?” Urahara gives him a wide look of shocked innocence. It is utterly unconvincing. He drops it after a moment with a smile. “Well, if you say so. I’m afraid I’m hopefully out of shape, in any case.”

Ichigo wonders about that. His memories from last night are hazy, but his sense of Urahara was one of dangerous competence – he had freed Zangetsu effortlessly, and had rounded Ichigo up and brought him to the Shoten without any trouble at all. It doesn’t speak to fighting form, of course, but the man is clearly more than the bumbling shop-keeper he appears to be. 

“You could leave Unit 12 – transfer in somewhere else,” suggests Ichigo.

Urahara flaps his fan facetiously. “Oh, they would never let me go,” he says, and under the joking tone Ichigo detects a steely hint of truth. “Besides, research is my calling. It’s where I fit.” He raises his head slightly, the shadow under his hat’s brim weakening. His skin is very pale; against his ash-blond hair it’s like snow on wheat. Ichigo wonders briefly what it would be like to have it under his hands. “Where do you fit, Kurosaki-san?”

It’s not a question he was expecting. He finds himself floundering between poor answers and no answer. “I don’t know,” he says, eventually. He has plenty of places he fits – his family, at the apartment with Uryuu, at work with Renji and the rest of their unit – but none that feels like it gives meaning to his life. He likes his work, but he could live without it. 

His parents named him with the expectation that he would find one thing to protect. He hasn’t found it yet. At 15, he had felt aspirational about it. At 25, he feels like a failure. 

Urahara waves away his frown. “It’s a personal question. You don’t need an answer.” While Ichigo is still standing there, feeling awkward about his lack of life goals, Urahara gives him a considering look. “Why don’t you come with me?” he asks, and heads back towards the house.

Unsure what he’s going to suggest, but curious, Ichigo does.

  
***

Urahara leads him through the back of the house to a set of stairs that descend into the foundation. At the bottom is a hatch. He lifts it and, pulling a 10 yen piece from his sleeve, drops it. There is no sound of it hitting the ground.

 _He has a bottomless well in his house_ , thinks Ichigo. And then, inanely, _is this where Unit 12 hides the bodies?_

“What is it?” he asks, peering down into the darkness. Urahara flips a switch on the wall and the space below lights up – not with harsh glaring LED or flickering fluorescence, but with warm natural light. Down below – far, far below – he can see rocky ground. It’s an immense, underground cavern, which looks like it covers at least the entirety of the street block. “How the _hell_ did you build it?” 

“Oh, that was Tessai-san,” waves away Urahara blithely. “He needed a weekend project.”

“What’s it _for?_ ”

“That,” says Urahara, smiling, “is what I wanted to talk to you about. You suggested your zanpaku-to finds itself at loose ends. This was created as a sparring ground. I’m aware of course that the Squad has training space available to it, but the regulations and schedules are so tiresome. This would be an unencumbered space.”

Ichigo turns from staring down the hatch to look at the scientist. “Are you offering sparring sessions?” he asks, a little incredulously. 

Urahara coughs self-deprecatingly. “I may not look like much, but I can hold my own, Kurosaki-san.”

And despite his ridiculous appearance and manner, Ichigo thinks he probably can. He had been, after all, a captain – even if of a research unit. Captains have evolved into primarily pencil pushers, but the original requirements remain – wicked power and exacting control. 

“Wearing swords when off-duty is prohibited,” he points out.

“But bringing a zanpaku-to to train is not.” 

Ichigo wonders if this is the loophole under which Urahara carries his own sword with him in broad daylight – albeit in thin disguise as a Shikomizue. 

“We could try it,” he agrees at last. And is aware that for all his interest in giving Zangetsu an opportunity to fight a fellow zanpaku-to, he’s at least as interested in seeing Urahara again. And, this time, he wants to see beneath his humble demeanor.

  
***

It’s arranged that Ichigo will come by on Thursday evening after work; his active case files are in the paperwork phase, so there’s no risk that he’ll be overtired. He doesn’t tell anyone – for one thing, it’s not strictly above board; for another, he doesn’t need word getting back to Renji. Doesn’t need the endless prying that will result.

If Urahara weren’t from Unit 12, it wouldn’t be such a big deal. If he were under Aizen Sousuke, or Ukitake Juushirou, it would be seen as a regular office romance and be greeted with shit-eating grins and the usual ribbing, and Ichigo probably wouldn’t be slinking off to the Shoten in secret. But Unit 12 is the home of metaphorical spooks and ghouls, and very literal experts in dismemberment. Everyone else steers well clear of their special brand of heartless experimentation. Like Frankenstein, half the time they don’t even bother naming the monsters they create. Even mod souls, he’s discovered by looking back through the records, are officially Experiment 20342-F. F for failure.

In short, it’s not a Unit anyone wants to be associated with, especially romantically. 

Really, it’s all very Romeo and Juliet, thinks Ichigo, as he waits for his colleagues to trickle out before going down to the weapons locker to check out Zangetsu. Their unit captain might be a psychopath with a taste for inflicting pain and suffering, but that doesn’t extend to everyone in it. Perhaps under Urahara’s captaincy it was different. 

It’s strange that no one ever talks about him.

  
***

He changes in the locker room, then drives across town to the Shoten with Zangetsu in the back seat. He felt the sword’s thrill when he touched the handle in the armory, his own stomach tensing with the sudden rush of adrenaline picking up his zanpaku-to always releases. _Mutual Harmony_ , he had been told to call it at the Academy – the pure communing between disparate parts of one’s soul suddenly joined.

In times past – over a century ago, before the Sword Abolishment Edict – the men and women dedicated to protecting the community from the angry white-masked spirits of the dead had lived and breathed with their blades. Now zanpaku-tos were housed in a secure lock-up in the basement of the Metropolitan Police Soul Squad buildings, only to be taken out for special assignments. But as their wielders had lost that power they had gained a new, more far-reaching mandate: policing all supernatural aspects of society. The historians he was taught from in school argued it was a net gain. Ichigo isn’t so sure.

The Shoten is up ahead on the left; he pulls over and parks, tearing his thoughts away from history. It would, he thinks as he gets out with Zangetsu in hand, be much more convenient all around if he could seal his blade like Urahara does. Would result in fewer alarmed looks from passers-by, and fewer awkward encounters with doorframes. But sealing the raw power held in a zanpaku-tos form is a complex art, far beyond the mid-level bakudo he learned in the Academy. 

Although the Shoten leads into the back of Urahara’s house, there’s a side-entrance purely for the home; it is this that he goes to with Zangetsu. Urahara answers his knock promptly, dressed as always in his hat, jinbei and haori. 

“Kurosaki-san,” he beams, opening the door. Ichigo steps in and out of his shoes.

“Bring those – you’ll need them,” says Urahara. Together they cut through the house and down the staircase leading to the subterranean hatch. Ichigo puts his shoes back on and follows Urahara down the long ladder leading to the wide-open space below.

The undergrown environment has a sterile feel to it – there are no scents and little texture other than the rocky ground, no wind or shade or flora. The earth crunches under his rubber soles – he wore his trainers for the purpose. 

Urahara has his Shikomizue hooked over his elbow, the cane dangling at his side. His geta clatter as he accompanies Ichigo away from the borders of this bizarre underground world he – or Tessai, whoever the hell that is – created. 

_If this is the kind of thing Unit 12 gets up to_ , thinks Ichigo, looking around, _it would be nice if they would share it_. For one thing, if they hollowed out this amount of space in merely a weekend, they could definitely find a captive audience at Tokyo Metro. 

Once they’ve come in towards the centre Urahara stops, cane slipping down his arm and into his hand. 

“You’re really gonna spar in those?” asks Ichigo, looking sceptically at the scientist’s footwear. 

“Oh, I think so,” says Urahara, smiling. And then, without any change in his demeanor, “Awaken, Benihime.” The cane in his hand unseals itself into his crook-handled sword, the red tassel at the end of the pommel shivering as though with anticipation. Ichigo reaches his sword down off his back.

He lost marks at the Academy for having no transition to shikai. Zangetsu is permanently released, always ready for a fight. He needs no special command to prepare himself, and he likes it that way. 

Ichigo holds his blade up now, eying Urahara from the short distance that separates them. His stance is solid, his grip firm on the unconventional handle. 

There’s a brief flare of reiatsu, which Ichigo can’t help but seeing as a sop to his lower rank, and then Urahara is flying forward. Ichigo deflects him, and dodges the second blow blind. 

Urahara is good – very good. He flips backwards, using his momentum to retreat, then launches forward with a series of slick, pristine cuts at Ichigo’s throat. Ichigo parries them, grinning. 

This is going to be _fun_.

  
***

They spar for an hour, by the end of which time Ichigo is breathing hard, arms heavy and legs tiring. At first glance Urahara looks unphased, breathing steady and eyes sharp. But there’s sweat beading on his face and darkening the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s an attractive nape, blond hair tapering to a point and curling delicately against his neck.

“Boss!” calls a faint voice from afar, just as they’re facing off for another pass. “The snacks are ready!”

Urahara lights up, falling immediately out of a combat stance and looking at once pleased and jaunty. “Excellent,” he says. And then, to Ichigo, “Shall we call it a day?”

Ichigo blinks. The change in the man – who had been fighting hard, although not at the edge of his ability – is striking. And, he has to admit, just a little funny. He likes that Urahara doesn’t take himself too seriously. 

“Alright,” he agrees, swinging Zangetsu up onto his shoulder. Urahara seals away his zanpaku-to, and together they begin the climb back up to the world above.

Up top the towering man from the shop is waiting for them, still in his apron although the store is long-since closed. 

“This is Tessai-san,” introduces Urahara, explaining the mystery of who built the mammoth arena. 

“We met previously,” rumbles Tessai, waiting for the two of them to pass him before following them up the stairs into the house. “I laid out drinks and snacks, boss.”

“Thanks. Go home – you didn’t need to stay.”

“Nonsense,” replies the large man, but he takes himself off with a wave and a twirl of his immense moustache. 

Urahara leads Ichigo to the same room in which he healed the detective the night before – a long, traditional room with a tatami floor and lined with white shoji. _Drinks and snacks_ turns out to be glasses of beer and plates of otsumami – edamame, ika ten, and saki ika. 

“I recall you like Kirin,” says Urahara with a smile – transporting Ichigo immediately back to the afternoon they had met on the street, with him hauling beer back to his apartment. He flushes lightly, taking Zangetsu down off his back and laying him down carefully on the floor behind him. 

“Good memory.”

There are worn zabutons on the floor on either side of the short table; Ichigo wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm and plops down. He takes a long draught from the beer in front of him, so cold his teeth tingle with it. “Tastes good,” he says, putting down the half-empty glass.

“You have a unique style,” says Urahara, running one long finger down the side of his glass and drawing a line in the condensation; Ichigo realises suddenly that he’s staring, captivated. “I imagine they didn’t know quite what to make of it at the Academy.”

“Oh, they knew,” says Ichigo, pulling his eyes away and managing an ironic smile. “An example of what not to do.” It hadn’t been quite that bad, but he’d never scored highly in his zanjustu practicals – despite consistently winning his matches. In the end, it meant being passed over for a fast-track promotion. He didn’t mind then, and doesn’t now. 

“Yes, they always were hide-bound. Able to see potential only when it presents itself in a conventional package.” Urahara takes a sip of his drink. 

“I sure as hell have never been good at being ‘conventional,’” replies Ichigo, running a hand through his damp, orange hair. Urahara’s mouth quirks upwards into a crooked smile. 

“I see that,” he says, in a low tone. It makes a shiver run down Ichigo’s spine. “Saw it the first time I met you, in fact,” he adds, ash-grey eyes shining. “I like unusual things.”

“Is that why you work for Unit 12?” asks Ichigo, still intrigued by that question despite the current of attraction that’s running through the room, practically tangible in the low light.

“I like research. Experimentation. Trying to make the world a better place. Trite, but true.” He pops an edamame bean from its pod and slips it past his lips, licking the salt from his thumb. Seeing Ichigo watching, he does it again. “But yes. The unusual has always been a draw. Like a moth to flame.”

“You don’t strike me as the reckless type.” Ichigo finds all he can think about his how to get around the table that’s between them, how to overcome what seems like an insurmountable barrier. 

“I plan before I leap – it doesn’t mean I don’t take risks. Quite the reverse.” He licks his fingers again, and Ichigo quite abruptly finds the space between them – separated by rank, by unit, and right at this very moment, by a table – to be entirely too much.

He stands up, stomps around, and sits down beside Urahara on the tatami floor. 

“Will you take off your hat?” he asks, so close that their knees are practically touching, that if he twitched his fingers they would brush against Urahara’s haori. “I want to see you.”

Urahara reaches up slowly and takes the hat off by placing his fingers around the crown and lifting it carefully; he puts it down beside him. 

Beneath the bucket hat he’s just as handsome as Ichigo suspected – a long nose, large, pleasant eyes and a thin mouth that contrives to look self-effacing as well as wicked at the same time. His golden hair is parted at the centre into two sweeping wings; with gentle highlights and a silky texture, it’s just as natural as Ichigo’s own orange locks. 

“You’re not quite hideous enough to need the disguise,” says Ichigo, reaching out and resting his fingers gently over Urahara’s hand. His skin is warm and dry; he turns his thumb to stroke against Ichigo’s palm.

“I cut my teeth in Unit 2,” says Urahara. “Once you’ve stepped into the shadows, it can be hard to step out again.”

So an exterminator as well as a scientist. It should be a warning – _this man is dangerous!_ But he doesn’t feel the least bit concerned by the revelation. It matches well with Urahara’s smooth, motion-conserving combat style and his cool demeanor under fire. 

“Most people wouldn’t think of a corner store owner as a hollow exterminator,” says Ichigo, sliding minutely closer. 

“Oh, we’re good at concealing ourselves.”

“You’re not hiding now.”

Urahara smiles. “No.”

Ichigo leans in and kisses him, one hand sliding up to rest on Urahara’s shoulder. He tastes of salt and beer. He’s an excellent kisser, far better than Ichigo, who still feels relatively clumsy with only a few short-lived romances in his past. But what he lacks in experience he makes up in enthusiasm, Urahara humming delightedly as Ichigo reaches up to run a hand through his hair and over the delicate curve of his ear. 

Despite the heavy, hungry feeling in his stomach, Ichigo’s not in a hurry. He doesn’t want to mess this up. This doesn’t feel like the frantic, pressing need of his Academy days to get out of his pants and into someone else’s in the least amount of time possible. It’s a deeper, headier rush that feels just a little like Mutual Harmony. He wants to know everything about this man – how he got in and out of Unit 2, how he came to be a captain and then lost that seat, what exactly it is that he does now. Because _research_ and _experimentation_ is no real kind of answer. 

By the end of ten minutes Ichigo is practically in Urahara’s lap, having pushed off the shop-keeper’s haori to reveal more pale skin. Ichigo’s own t-shirt is riding up at the hem, Urahara’s warm hand pressed against his side. 

“Can we take it slow? For now?” he asks, when Urahara breaks away to press kisses to the side of his neck, his warm breath tickling Ichigo’s sensitive skin. 

He _feels_ Urahara smile. “Of course.” The former captain ghosts his teeth over Ichigo’s skin; Ichigo shivers. 

“You’re very good at this,” he says, a little breathlessly. 

“I’m very good at everything I put my mind to, Kurosaki-san.”

“Ichigo is fine.”

Urahara looks up. “Ichigo-san, then. You must call me Kisuke,” he adds cheerfully. “Everyone important does.”

Ichigo’s chest flutters a little at that. 

They neck for a little longer, until Ichigo’s legs start to cramp up under him and he begins to become self-conscious about the fact that he’s still wearing his dirty work-out clothes. 

“I should go,” he says, pulling back. 

“It’s important not to run before we can walk,” agrees Kisuke. “But I do hope you’ll come back soon.”

“As soon as I can,” he answers immediately, without even a thought of playing it cool.

“Next Tuesday?” suggests Kisuke. 

Ichigo smiles without even bothering to consider his calendar. “Done.”

Kisuke sees him to the door, presses Ichigo’s hand when they part, his long fingers brushing against the inside of Ichigo’s wrist. “See you soon, Ichigo-san.”

He smiles like an idiot all the way home.


	3. Relationship Clusterfucks

When Ichigo comes in to work on Friday morning with an honest to God _smile_ on his face, Renji knows something big’s going on.

He decides to investigate immediately, in his most sharing-and-caring manner. 

“So,” he says, sauntering over to Ichigo’s desk and perching on the side, effectively blocking Ichigo’s view of his computer screen, “did you get some last night?”

Ichigo sputters.

“’Cause,” continues to Renji, “you look actually happy, and I’m not saying that’s a bad look on you, but it’s sure an unusual one. So spill, who is it? Yumichika? Isane? _Ganju?_ ” he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. 

Ichigo has, by now, recovered. “Firstly, it’s none of your goddamn business. Secondly, I would not go on a _date_ with _Ganju_ if you paid me – never mind jump into bed with the bastard. Third, that’s my fucking breakfast you just sat on.”

Renji gets up gingerly and explores the area under him – a crushed plastic bag holding several conbini onigiri. 

“Your diet sucks, man,” he says, pulling out the crushed rice balls. “Umeboshi? At least get something with protein.”

Ichigo’s eyebrow twitches. 

“Look, if you spill the beans, I’ll take you out for breakfast. My treat,” offers Renji grandly. Ichigo gives him the finger. 

“Hey, fine, your loss! So long as it’s not Urahara – you don’t want to get involved with those Unit 12 nut jobs. Trust me.”

“Thanks for your opinion,” says Ichigo, frostily, turning back to his computer. 

“Oh fuck, it is him, isn’t it?” Renji puts a hand to his forehead, reeling theatrically. “Look – I’ll bail you out before you get in too deep. Ditch him and I’ll set you up with someone who doesn’t dissect baby bunnies for kicks.”

“Like Ganju?” suggests Ichigo, witheringly, without looking.

“I’m serious, Ichigo,” says Renji, and he is serious, now. “Don’t get involved with those bastards. They’re trained to be cold, heartless shits, and Urahara used to be the shit-in-chief. It’s only a matter of time before he hurts you. As your friend, I don’t –” 

“Look,” interrupts Ichigo, turning hard eyes on him. “You’re concerned, I get it. But I’m just not interested. I’m all grown up – I can make my own decisions.”

For a minute, Renji considers arguing. As a lieutenant, he attends the monthly Unit meetings, and is exposed to the frankly batshit insanity of some of Unit 12’s senior officers. Men and women Urahara works with – men and women he used to command. All Ichigo knows is vague rumours; Renji knows facts. About the teratogenic drugs their captain has developed to test on pregnant animals, solely to see what emerges; about the reports of Unit 4 treating Unit 12 scientists for abnormal and painful conditions; about the experiments they subject new recruits to that regularly make them vomit and faint. 

About the warehouses of products like the Mod Souls, developed and then shelved as failures – many with the ability to wipe out the Soul Squad in its entirety. 

In his opinion, no one with a soul would be caught dead in Unit 12. And he doesn’t want to see his subordinate hooking up with some soulless monstrosity. It can only end in disaster – a complete clusterfuck, to be precise. 

Ichigo doesn’t deserve that. 

But from the way he’s staring icily at Renji, it’s plenty clear that if he pushes further it’ll be him off the deep end, not Urahara. And, like he said, Ichigo’s a big boy. It’s not Renji’s place to swoop in and save him from relationship clusterfucks. 

He just wishes he knew whose place it was. So he could have them on speed dial.

“Okay. But if you wanna talk…” he offers, shrugging and backing down.

Ichigo’s frown slowly smooths out, although his brows remain tight. “Yeah. Right.”

He starts typing, clearly done with the conversation. Renji leaves him to it.

  
***

Ichigo spends the weekend thinking too much.

He has no time for gossip and rumours, finds stupid text chains like Renji’s to be brain cell killers. He knows perfectly well what it’s like being the target of those chains, of the sneers and laughs and whispers. 

They had faded in the Academy, where his orange hair and immense reiatsu were unusual but not unheard of. But nothing will make him forget the numerous beat-downs from bullies bigger and stronger than him over the course of his school years, the taste of blood in his mouth and the sting of busted knuckles. 

He not only doesn’t care that Kisuke’s _different_ , he likes it. The two of them suit each other, like a pair of mismatched ragdolls. And he’s big enough now to take the bullies on – doesn’t give a rat’s ass what they think. 

It’s friends like Renji, who are legitimately concerned for him, that will be hard to handle. If and when anything comes of this strange relationship he’s starting. 

And he’s hoping like hell something will.

  
***

He decides to test it out on Uryuu. By day, the Quincy archer works in Unit 7, dealing with crimes committed by practitioners – regular people with reiatsu who get up to some seriously nasty business. But by night he’s Ichigo’s boring-ass roommate whose favourite store is Tokyu Hands and whose idea of a good time is breaking out his serger.

The good thing about Ishida is that, while he can be a pompous and melodramatic ass on occasion, he grew up just as isolated by his oddness as Ichigo. And, unlike Renji, his first instinct upon hearing something gossip-worthy is to stop and think about it, rather than gabbing it to the nearest warm body. 

“I met this guy,” is how Ichigo subtly introduces the topic, over dishes. Uryuu insists that they do the dishes together, probably because otherwise he ends up doing all of them due to his hyperactive neatness gene. Ichigo’s drying today while Uryuu washes, the pair of them working in an easy rhythm. 

“Mn,” replies Uryuu, scrubbing at a plate. 

“I may start seeing him,” he adds, building slowly. 

“That would be nice,” says Uryuu.

“His name’s Urahara Kisuke.”

“Oh yes?” Uryuu keeps washing, then pauses, brows furrowing. He looks up, delicate features drawn together, while the plate he’s washing sinks below the water line. “Not Unit 12 Urahara Kisuke,” he says.

“Yep.” 

“You _do_ know that he was the unit’s captain.”

Ichigo keeps drying. “Yep.”

“Don’t you think that will make Abarai-san a little insecure?” he asks.

Ichigo blinks. “Because I’m dating a former captain?”

Uryuu hands him the plate. “Well. He wants to be a captain one day, and he’s already superior to an officer who could be a captain now, if he chose. And your dad’s a former captain, and now you’re dating a former captain. It’s a little…”

“Over-powered?”

“I was going to say, delicate.” Uryuu flicks some suds off his fingers and begins washing the chopsticks. 

“Well I don’t choose who I go out with based on Renji’s comfort level. Although he _did_ complain about it.” 

He hands Ichigo a set of chopsticks. “Because the only way you could further accelerate yourself would be sleeping with Captain Yamamoto?”

“Because he thinks Unit 12’s a collection of freaks and nut bars.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that.” 

Ichigo perks up. “No?”

He hands over the other set of chopsticks. “No. You’ll fit right in.”

Ichigo rolls his eyes. He finishes drying the chopsticks and puts them away in their drawer while Uryuu drains the sink. “In all honesty, Ichigo – I’ve met Urahara-san. He seems like a kind, intelligent person. That’s not who people see, though. What they see is Unit 12. And no one likes Unit 12.”

Ichigo flicks a grain of rice into the sink. “Yeah, well, people are assholes.”

“Is that what you’ll tell them, when they object?” asks Uryuu.

“I’ll tell them that Kisuke’s a great guy, and they can stuff their crap where the sun doesn’t shine because I’ve already made up my mind about him. It’s my opinion that matters. If they actually care about me, they’ll appreciate that. If they don’t, fuck ‘em.”

“Eloquent as always,” says Uryuu, smiling for the first time. “But I agree with the sentiment.”

“Thanks.”

  
***

He goes home for dinner on Sunday.

Yuzu is still living at home, working on her teaching degree. Karin’s living in a share house, training to be a paramedic. They focused on saving people – Ichigo focused on putting them behind bars. Goat Face is the same as always, running the Clinic between lamenting on his almost-empty nest and ordering ridiculous outfits over the internet. But once a month, regardless of what’s going on in their now individual lives, they all come home for dinner.

Tonight is Ichigo’s treat, which means sushi from Ebizo-zushi. He buys three platters and takes them over, balancing them skillfully as he navigates the streets. 

He’s the last one home, he can tell at once by the noise as he comes in the front door. Karin and Goat Face are wrestling in the living room while Yuzu runs around trying to rescue fragile ornaments from the chaos. 

Ichigo enters to find his Dad on his hands and knees, nursing his head. He kicks him from behind in the ass, sending him into a dive.

“Ichi-nii!”

“Ichi-nii!”

“ _Waugh!_ ”

Ichigo puts the sushi down on the table. “It’s like coming home to the circus,” he complains, looking around.

“We’ve got the clown, at least,” agrees Karin, glancing at Goat Face who’s staggering to his feet with the assistance of a bookshelf. Today he’s wearing a black-and-white diamond pattern wrap-around jacket which is, Ichigo fully agrees, reminiscent of a pierrot. 

“One day you will inherit this unrivalled wardrobe, Ichigo – you don’t have to hide your true feelings!” 

Ichigo rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah; it’s my legacy. Let’s eat.”

The girls bring plates and chopsticks and soy sauce over to the table while Ichigo and his father manhandle the plastic tops off the circular packs. 

The first several minutes are spent rehashing everyone’s months, with updates from Karin’s soccer team and Yuzu’s summer beach plans. It’s only when that has died down that Ichigo picks up a piece of shime saba and glances at his father.

“What d’you know about Unit 12?” he asks, in an off-handed manner. 

Goat Face’s eyebrows rise, but it’s a subdued reaction for him. “My son, take it from me. Kurosakis are many things – intelligent, handsome, strong as oxen! But we are not made for fiddling with microscopes and test tubes.”

“I’m not thinking of applying. I met a friend, recently. From Unit 12.”

Isshin daubs an unagi roll delicately in soy sauce. “Never had much to do with them, really. In my day they were mostly forensics – tracking down reiraku, identifying hollow-related damage, that kind of thing. A few years after I left they got in a brilliant new captain – he took them in a different direction. Expanded into R&D. Spent a fabulous amount of money, and paid it off twice-over with the inventions they turned out in the first three years.”

“That’s not what people talk about now,” points out Ichigo.

His father shrugs. “There was some scandal; I was long gone by that point. The captain was turfed and they brought in a replacement: Kurotsuchi. He took them in a different direction again – biological experimentation. Whatever he’s developing must be worth it because they haven’t shut him down, but between you and me I would tell your friend to get out before the wheels come off. Kurotsuchi’s got all the makings of a mad scientist, and they only last so long before imploding. If he goes down the brass will clean house.”

Sometimes, Ichigo thinks, Goat Face can sound almost intelligent.

“Seems like they were better off under the former captain,” fishes Ichigo, to all appearances focused on his pickled ginger. 

“Maybe. They certainly brought in more income. But like I said – I don’t know why they got rid of him. Whatever the scandal was, Yamamoto kept it quiet. It wasn’t in the papers.”

“Hm.”

“Why not bring your friend into the 6th? You’re doing good work there, and Kuchiki seems fair. To rescue someone from a den of infamy and bring him into the light is a noble cause, Ichigo!” He strikes a pose, knocking over a saucer of soy sauce; Yuzu scolds him.

“He likes it where he is,” replies Ichigo blandly, and shifts the conversation to the controversial topic of FC Tokyo’s latest match.

  
***

“What was that about your ‘friend’?” Karin asks him later that night, when the two of them are walking home. Her share house is on his way, so they always walk together.

“Just work,” he says.

Karin kicks a stone. “You never talk about work. And you definitely never ask Goat Face about it. I always figured hell would freeze over before you asked him for advice.” 

“It wasn’t advice.”

“Same difference. What’s up with this Unit 12 – why’re you so interested?”

Ichigo sighs, stuffing his hands in his jeans pockets. “Everyone says they get up to weird shit. Maybe borderline illegal stuff – no one ever really knows hard facts. They’re like an urban legend – everyone’s sister’s boyfriend’s neighbour knows they violate ethics protocols and torture kittens. But this guy –”

“This _friend_ ,” says Karin, eyes suspiciously narrow.

“Yeah. He seems… well, normal is an overstatement, but… nice. Thoughtful. Intelligent. So if he’s part of the 12th, maybe they’re not all they seem.”

“It _sounds_ ,” says Karin, smiling predatorily, “like someone’s got a crush.”

Ichigo feels his face warming. “It’s not like that.”

“No? What’s it like then? Was that you vetting your new boyfriend with Dad? ‘Cause if so, full points for obfuscation. Goat Face’ll never know what hit him when you actually do introduce him.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“My mistake,” replies Karin, toothily. “What is he, then?”

“Right now? … I don’t know. But in a while…”

“Yeah?”

“Alright, _maybe_ a boyfriend. Okay?”

She pats him condescendingly on the shoulder. “Good job, Ichi-nii. It’s about time you found someone. Even if he is from a unit full of kitten torturers.”

“Just don’t tell Yuzu that, okay?”

“Sure, sure. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  
***

Tuesday arrives, and Ichigo finds himself beginning to get worked up over the prospect of that evening. He’s had four days to think about the potential of a relationship with Kisuke and the fall-out. His conclusion has been a resounding: To fuck with other peoples’ opinions.

It doesn’t mean he’s let go of his curiosity about Kisuke’s past, or even his present. But for now, he’ll let the other man reveal his secrets when he’s ready to. Ichigo can be patient.

  
***

“You came back.”

Kisuke greets him that evening with a smile – not the wide, goofy grin of their previous encounters but a smaller, more heartfelt one. 

“Couldn’t keep me away.” In fact, nothing had tried. Work hadn’t even threatened to bleed over, no last-minute calls from Renji or piles of paperwork to mop up. 

As they had on Thursday, they cross through the house with their shoes and zanpaku-tos, then descend the long ladder to Kisuke’s training ground. 

“You were holding back last time,” says Kisuke, as they walk to the centre of the open space.

“So were you.”

Kisuke smiles, tilting his hat downwards. “Very perceptive. I’ve heard through the grapevine of an officer ready for a captaincy, who refuses to put his name forward. They say he’s mastered bankai, but won’t demonstrate it.”

“Really?” Ichigo tries, and fails, to sound nonchalant. 

“You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to, Ichigo-san.” Kisuke releases his sword’s seal, Benihime gleaning. “But I won’t go easy on you this time.”

Ichigo grins. “I look forward to it.”

  
***

Ichigo has never sparred at this level before beyond short, set exhibition matches before his graduation from the Academy. Then it had been about grace and form, demonstrating perfection for the underclassmen (he had not won). Now it’s about speed and precision, deflecting Kisuke’s blade with the greatest economy of movement to be ready for the next attack.

They come faster and faster, Kisuke driving with incredible speed and stamina, Benihime shining gloriously. Zangetsu is hungry for release, to show his true power and take control, exert mastery. Ichigo blasts out a getsuga tenshou, which Kisuke blocks with a crimson shield. 

“Not enough, huh?” he says, weighing Zangetsu in his hand. And then, grinning: “Bankai.”

The world seems almost to slow as his reflexes and strength surge; he launches forward and sees the surprise in Kisuke’s face. The former captain still deflects the blow, albeit by the skin of his teeth. The next slash he is prepared for, and dodges it with more time to spare. 

“Fascinating,” he says, glancing at Zangetsu’s black katana form. “And unique.”

“All bankais are unique,” shoots back Ichigo, racing forward to stab at Kisuke’s side. He parries it with a downwards blow.

“But there is a pattern to them. Yours breaks that.” Kisuke rips Benihime upwards, tearing Zangetsu away from Ichigo’s fingers. He barely holds on, but loses his footing.

An instant later, Kisuke’s blade is at his throat. 

“Even bankai requires practice,” he says, smiling.

“Again?” asks Ichigo. Kisuke nods and steps back.

“Again.”

  
***

They continue sparring for almost half an hour more, until Ichigo’s fingers are numb and the tip of his blade is perilously close to the earth. They break off then, Kisuke sealing away Benihime while Ichigo re-wraps Zangetsu.

The climb back upstairs seems infinite. By the time he reaches the top he aches everywhere. His limbs feel heavy as lead, his vision blurred at the edges.

“That was too much,” says Kisuke apologetically, catching his elbow when he falters. “Your stamina isn’t up to such a prolonged bankai. You’ll be feeling it in earnest tomorrow.”

“It’s good practice,” protests Ichigo. 

“You don’t need to train this hard for a post you don’t want,” replies the former captain. He helps Ichigo to the door; by the time they get there, Ichigo is practically draped over his shoulder. “Let me take you home.”

“’M fine.”

“And here I was led to believe detectives were adept at assessing facts.” Kisuke prods him out the front door and around the corner to where a boxy Suzuki kei car is sitting. He opens the door for Ichigo and tucks him in carefully, waiting patiently for Ichigo to manhandle Zangetsu into the back. Then he gets in the driver’s seat and straps on his seatbelt. “Where to?”

Ichigo gives him directions and they’re off, driving quietly through the dark streets. Buttery light is flowing down from the streetlights overhead; the evening’s warm. Kisuke’s car smells of cardboard and aftershave – it’s a pleasant, homey smell. He tries to keep his eyes open, but finds his head nodding, nodding…

  
***

“Ichigo-san?”

Ichigo startles awake at a soft touch on his shoulder. He’s sitting in a stiff seat – Kisuke’s car. He blinks and looks out to recognize the hair dresser’s shop across the street from his apartment. 

He fell asleep. Here, alone with Kisuke. Without even a twinge of concern. 

“Is this it?” asks Kisuke, engine idling quietly. He’s leaning over slightly, eyes bright under the brim of his hat.

“Yeah.” Ichigo pulls himself together, running a hand through his hair. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

“Nonsense. Do you need help upstairs?”

“No. I mean, you’d be welcome – but my roommate’s probably asleep by now, and… I’m sorry. This has been a shitty date.” He feels suddenly guilty and embarrassed; he’s torpedoed their night with his own eagerness to show off, to prove that he could indeed produce a bankai. Like a university student keen to prove he can hold his liquor, he’s ended up a wreck – unable to even get himself home.

Kisuke smiles. “It certainly hasn’t. To an enemy, bankai is death. To an ally, it’s a rare sign of favour.”

“I guess. But maybe next time…”

“Yes?”

“Maybe we could just have dinner, or something?” suggests Ichigo.

“I’d like that.”

He leans forward and kisses Kisuke, quick and intense, his fingers knotting in the fabric of Kisuke’s shirt. He exalts in the warm wetness of Kisuke’s mouth, of the slick flash of his tongue and the soft touch of his hand at Ichigo’s cheek. 

Ichigo’s panting into the heat of their shared ardour, stomach twisting eagerly. In another minute, he’ll end up trying to jump Kisuke in the car in the middle of his street. He pulls away, flushed and light-headed. “Dinner,” he says. “Text me.” 

He grabs Zangetsu and slides out of the car. He can feel Kisuke’s eyes on him all the way to the building’s door.

  
***

Renji’s in his office the next morning when Ichigo drags himself in, steps heavy and head bowed. His skin has a greyish tone.

“The hell happened to you?” asks Renji, coming out to the main office to eye him up.

“Did some sparring last night,” replies Ichigo, slumping into his seat. “Went at it a little too hard.”

“No shit. Where were you? The coaches shouldn’t be working you so hard.”

Ichigo shrugs. “It was off the books.”

Renji feels his intuition tingling.

“Was it with Urahara?” he asks, casually.

Ichigo doesn’t answer.

“Fuck, man, he used to be a captain; he’s outta your league. And he’s not licensed to train. That’s not just dumb – it’s dangerous.”

“Everyone trains on their own.”

“Yeah, in a registered facility under a training program! Not – what? In the park? Some shitty little community centre somewhere?”

Ichigo sticks out his chin. “It doesn’t matter. And it’s none of your business.”

“If you’re putting yourself at risk –”

“I’m _not_ ,” sparks Ichigo, straightening. His eyes snap, his reiatsu flaring. Around them, Renji hears the other detectives stop working, their attention honing in on the scene. “It’s my time, and my training. Leave it alone, Renji.”

“Look – I won’t say anything more for now. But if you drag your ass in here again looking like this…”

“I won’t.”

“Good. Because as your superior, I _can’t_ look away, Ichigo.”

Ichigo gives him a stony look. Renji sighs and walks back to his office. Once there, he closes his door. Then he dials Matsumoto.

“Rangiku-san? It’s me. Look, I need some information. Yeah, from the records morgue. Unofficially. It’s about Urahara. Urahara Kisuke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How _does_ Kisuke drive in geta?


	4. Icarus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating has been raised to M.

The day is a long slog. Ichigo feels like he’s got weights strapped to his arms and legs, like he’s plated in steel. Sitting at his computer is manageable, getting up for refills of coffee is like bench-pressing Chad. 

It’s made all the longer by his constantly checking his phone for new texts. And while he gets several – Ikkaku wondering when they should do lunch again, Karin asking for an update on his ‘creepy-ass boyfriend’ and Goat Face reminding him to take his vitamins – none come through from Kisuke. Each buzz makes him jump, then scowl as he checks the face of his phone. 

At the end of the day he drags himself home to a bath and an early bed. He’s worn out both physically and mentally, feels thin as old cotton sheets. Feels like the sun would shine through his hands were he to hold them up to it. 

He’s being ridiculous, he tells himself. Ridiculous and over-strung as a grass-green rookie taking his zanpaku-to out on assignment for the first time and overthinking every move, every word, every breath. 

He checks his phone: no new texts.

It takes him more than an hour to get to sleep.

  
***

He wakes up the next morning and checks his phone: no new texts.

Despite having taken a bath the night before he has a hot shower, relishes the heat over his worn muscles. They feel better today – much improved over yesterday’s pathetic performance. He’s able to walk with his back straight and to contemplate carrying something heavier than a piece of paper.

Mentally though, he feels uncertain and frayed at the edges. He gets out of the shower, pulls on his uniform, and resolves not to check his texts until at least 10:00.

Loading himself into his Fit, he makes his way in to work. And there, glory be, finds an email addressed to him on the Met server from an internal address. It’s time-stamped at 2:02am.

To: KUROSAKI ICHIGO  
From: URAHARA KISUKE  
Subject: Number

_Hi-ya <3_

_This email is to remind you that you never gave me your phone number._

_Mine is: 080-9453-8520_

_I leave dinner reservations to you._

_Kisuke_

Ichigo is briefly possessed by the urge to smack his own forehead. But it’s soon chased away by his glowing enthusiasm: he was not forgotten. Just briefly thwarted by his own stupidity. 

When that dies down and he’s no longer grinning fit to break his face, he reads the email again. Imagines Kisuke sitting at his computer down in Unit 12 in the middle of the night shift, typing an email to his – what? Friend? Almost-lover?

It’s only been a week, but he’s already getting tired of these prevarications, of the qualifications that surround their relationship. Already getting tired of ‘taking it slow.’

He’s never been good at holding himself back. 

Ichigo pulls out his phone and texts the number Kisuke provided:

_This is Ichigo. Dinner tomorrow night? 7pm – La Nuit?_

It’s a local French restaurant, not too fancy but very authentic. Just a hole in the wall, really, with only a few rickety white-clothed tables and a warm candlelight glow. And, conveniently, it is quite close to the Shoten.

His other dates have all been cheap affairs – dinners at family restaurants and parfaits at street-side cafes with the girls; dingy bars with the guys. They’ve been characterized on the one side by plasticky napkins and laminated menus, on the other by battered pool tables and too-loud music.

He wants something different. Something lasting.

  
***

Kisuke texts back later in the day: _See you there._

Ichigo wonders briefly what it says about his supposedly gruff and stoic detective demeanor, that one simple text can make him beam. 

He can practically hear Renji’s voice in his head: _You’ve got it bad, man._

And he does. He just wishes Renji didn’t have to be such an ass about it. It would have been nice to be able to talk to someone else who’s just as moon-struck as him. Even if Renji’s undying crush on Rukia is old news by now.

But Renji _has_ decided to be an ass, firmly assigning himself to the corner designated for shitty friends and nosy superiors and camping there, so Ichigo’ll just have to go it alone.

  
***

The next day seems to crawl by, Ichigo deep in paperwork with some court prep on the side. Renji has been oddly absent, but in a way it’s not a bad thing – with the date coming up tonight he doesn’t have room for negativity. Wants only to focus on what he’s looking forward to: Kisuke’s wit, his absurd laugh, the warmth of his hands.

The taste of his skin. 

Ichigo rubs at his eyes and tries to refocus on the forms in front of him. It takes some doing.

  
***

Uryuu is already home when he gets in late that afternoon, eager for a shower and a shave.

“Might be home late tonight,” he tells Uryuu as he collects his towels from the linen closet. 

“Another night assignment?” asks the archer, currently hand-making udon noodles in their tiny kitchen. He’s got a handy little machine the clamps onto the end of the counter for cutting them – like the rest of Uryuu’s possessions, it’s spotless and in perfect working order. 

“Going out with Kisuke.”

Uryuu’s eyebrows arch slightly. “You’re making progress.”

“Don’t jinx it.” He heads into the shower. 

Fifteen minutes later he’s clean, dry and shaved. He spikes his hair and applies a light splash of aftershave. 

He comes out to the delicious scent of broth cooking. Uryuu is chopping vegetables, preparing to mix together his dinner. If he didn’t already have plans – _excellent_ plans – Ichigo might almost be jealous of the meal. 

Instead he retreats to his room to stare into his closet in something like despair. He has no idea what to wear. Kisuke’s idea of fashion is clearly detached from reality – really, a jinbei in a lab – but he doesn’t plan to copy it. He pulls shirts off hangers and out of shelves, occasionally putting one on, his confidence steadily waning. The pile on his bed just keeps growing. 

“Ichigo – you’re overthinking it,” calls Uryuu from the kitchen. “He’s going out with you, not your wardrobe.”

In the end, Ichigo puts on the tightest pair of jeans he owns – dark blue, with a tan leather belt – and a sky blue t-shirt under a navy button-up. His mother had dressed him in blue – _it sets off your beautiful hair._

He hopes Kisuke will appreciate it.

  
***

Being unsure how much he’ll end up drinking, he takes the bus across town instead of driving, and ends up outside La Nuit five minutes to seven.

“Ichigo-saaaan,” calls a cheerful voice from behind him. Ichigo’s chest tightens slightly; he turns. 

Kisuke is walking down the street wearing his usual clothes, although without the hat. He looks, Ichigo considers, ridiculously good for someone in a haori, jinbei and geta. Behind his cheery smile his eyes are thoughtful and considering; they rake over Ichigo’s tight jeans and open shirt, and he’s suddenly glad he spent so much time considering his wardrobe. 

Without the shadow of the bucket hat, Kisuke’s face looks much less conspiratorial – less like a member of the lunatic fringe and more like a slightly bemused professor. His eyes alone belie his pleasant, slightly bumbling demeanor; they are razor-sharp and glint warmly in the summer evening sunlight. 

“Thanks for emailing me,” he says, as Kisuke arrives at his side. 

Kisuke smiles. “I did consider having Nemu-san dig your number out of the emergency preparedness plans, but that seemed a bridge too far for a first date.” 

“And here I thought you were capable of anything.” He ducks his head slightly. “I’m glad you were able to make it.”

“Oh, I changed my shift to tomorrow night,” replies Kisuke easily; he opens the door for Ichigo.

The inside of the restaurant is dim. A maitre d’s stand is illuminated by a ray of light pouring down from a single halogen above. The rest of the restaurant is lit by white fairy lights running in arches just below the ceiling that create the appearance of stars. Candles flicker on the tables – there are only six. A low glow towards the back of the room indicates the entrance to the kitchen. There’s a delicious savoury smell in the air. Hidden speakers play quiet jazz just above a whisper. 

Ichigo’s never eaten here before – just poked his head in once and received rave reviews from Mizuiro who is not-so-secretly a gourmet snob. His first thought is that it might be a bit over the top, but then Kisuke presses in after him smelling cleanly of beeswax and sandalwood, and he’s suddenly in the mood for candlelight and soft music. 

“I have a reservation for two for Kurosaki,” he tells the hostess, who smiles and picks up two menus, then guides them to a table. 

“Do you ever change out of that?” he asks as they sit down, gesturing towards Kisuke’s casual wear. 

“Not for a long time. I used to wear the uniform at work, but on night shift…” he shrugs. “I’m my own supervisor, and there’s no one else there to complain.”

“Must be dull.”

“Oh, I’m never bored.”

Ichigo thinks back to what Goat Face had to say about Kisuke – he had turned the department around and made it an overwhelming success with his inventions.

“No; I guess you make your own amusements,” he says. 

“Something like that,” agrees Kisuke, looking down at his menu. “What looks good?”

  
***

They order and are served with bread and wine – a nice French merlot, ordered by Kisuke who seemed undaunted by the several-page long wine menu. The venues Ichigo frequents usually post their drinks menus in plastic stands on the table tops.

“Have you been here before?” asks Ichigo, buttering a piece of bread.

“Many years ago now. It’s much the same. Hopefully the kitchen retains its former quality.” He runs a finger along the rim of his glass; his finger is dry and there’s no sound, but Ichigo finds himself watching the movement all the same. Kisuke has nice hands. He finds himself imagining them undressing him, and has to wrench his mind back to the present abruptly when Kisuke continues: “I hope you didn’t suffer too badly at work on Wednesday.”

“It was a bit grim,” answers Ichigo, smiling. And then: “Renji’s onto us.”

Kisuke raises his eyebrows. “My. Should I be expecting a confrontation?”

Ichigo blinks; Kisuke spreads his hands as though showing his cards.

“It’s no secret that my unit is not in anyone’s good books, Ichigo-san. And my own place in it is… obscure. I imagine he has reservations about our relationship.”

“Yeah. He does,” admits Ichigo. “But it’s nothing I can’t handle. And it’s none of his business, really.”

“He’s your friend.”

“And my boss. It’s not his job to pry. He’s supposed to be impartial.” 

“That’s asking a lot from Abarai-san, from what I know of him.”

Ichigo smiles. “Tell me more about yourself. How you ended up in the Soul Squad – how you ended up a captain.”

Kisuke takes a drink of his wine. “Oh, there’s one very simple answer to both those questions: Shihouin Yoruichi-san.”

Ichigo frowns. “It rings a bell.” He tries to place the name, but his mind can’t move beyond Kisuke’s bright eyes and full lips. 

“She was the captain of Unit 2. We grew up together – did everything together. School, homework, clubs – all of it. And we both had strong reiatsu. It ran in her family, although not in mine. We both decided we would enter the Academy. I took the academic route and completed the training alongside my university degree. She threw herself into training whole-heartedly; she’s always been very focused. And very strong. She was placed directly into Unit 2 upon graduation and worked her way up to the captaincy in 5 years. I was just graduating when she was elevated; she brought me into Unit 2. Extermination was never my interest, but I couldn’t say no. So I went.” 

“Flash Goddess Yoruichi,” he remembers at last. “She didn’t use a blade – just hakuda and kido. A martial arts master.”

Kisuke smiles a little somberly. “That’s right. I stayed on a few years with her, but as I said, it wasn’t my interest. Unit 12 fitted me much better; in those days they were purely forensically focused, but I saw opportunity to moving into R&D. There is so much potential in our world, in the power we hold. I couldn’t ignore it. I developed bankai as a means to an end: gaining its captaincy. And that’s what happened.”

“And now I feel ashamed of my complacency,” says Ichigo. It’s an incredible story – two motivated youths achieving captaincies at such a young age to meet their dreams. While he, meanwhile, wallows happily in the muck of the lower ranks. 

“My aspirations don’t have to be yours. You shouldn’t let anyone dictate your future, Ichigo-san.”

He wants to ask what happened – why Kisuke lost his post, why he haunts the Unit 12 basement in the depths of the night. But the question is too delicate, and he can’t think of a way to phrase it.

Their meals arrive, and they focus on that instead.

  
***

The food is excellent. Ichigo doesn’t eat a lot of European, excluding cheap Italian now and then; he finds the rich food heavy but delicious. They make light conversation about work – the gruelling nature of the night shift and shift work, the quirks of the Met’s time-management system, the most ridiculous call-outs they’ve attended.

Kisuke is a good talker, but also a good listener. When his plate is finally removed he sits with his hands knit together supporting his chin, listening and occasionally taking a sip of his wine (their second bottle). Ichigo tells him about his childhood – a slightly sanitized version that passes lightly over his mother’s death and skips entirely over the bullying that plagued him until he was big enough to put a stop to it. Kisuke is interested in Goat Face, who was still head of Unit 10 when he was in the 2nd, and smiles at Ichigo’s (many) chronicles about his father. 

Around the time that the desert menu comes, Kisuke’s knee finds his under the table. Ichigo pulls in a deep breath but doesn’t move, relaxing after a minute even while his heart continues to race.

They don’t end up having desert. 

Ichigo insists on paying for the meal: “You can pay next time,” he tells Kisuke, who grins at that. 

“Maa, Ichigo-san. If you’re not careful I’ll take you to Denny’s just to save on the bill.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” he says, seriously. And then: “Besides, I know I’m safe. There’s no way you’d be caught dead in Denny’s.”

“You’ll come back for a nightcap?” asks Kisuke, when he’s paid. His grey eyes are dark and watchful, tongue slipping out to wet his lips. Ichigo shivers.

“Sure,” he says, playing at being unaffected. When really, his heart is pounding like a drum in his chest. 

They leave together and cross the street in the twilight, cutting down an alleyway behind a pachinko parlour. In the darkness Kisuke’s hand finds his and squeezes it briefly. _What the hell_ , thinks Ichigo blithely, and turns to pull Kisuke in for a kiss. 

A minute later he’s up against the alley’s wall, the two of them panting harshly as they press together, all hot mouths and slick tongues. Kisuke’s hand is caught on his belt, his own hand in Kisuke’s hair. “I think we’d better go home,” says Kisuke; Ichigo hears rather than sees the wry grin. 

“Lead the way.”

They tumble across the alleyway and out into the street beyond. The Shoten is just down the block. Under a newly-lit streetlight, Ichigo sees what looks like a black cat sitting beside the Shoten doorway. Kisuke bumps into his shoulder and makes a vague, happy noise – when Ichigo looks back the cat is gone. Then they’re across the street and in front of the Shoten and Kisuke is unlocking the front door.

  
***

They end up in an unceremonious heap on Kisuke’s bedroom floor. He has no bed, just a futon, and they’re too eager to wrestle it out of the closet.

Kisuke’s clothes are much simpler to get out of than his – a point he hadn’t appreciated until now, when he ends up on top of Kisuke who is baring a delicious amount of pale skin. He presses kisses down Kisuke’s chest, teasing at the nipple, while his hands work at Kisuke’s narrow hips. 

“Can I?” he asks, hand hooked over the drawstring of Kisuke’s pants. 

“I’m all yours,” says Kisuke. A moment later he _is_ , Ichigo’s mouth on him, lapping wetly at his cock while Kisuke throws back his head and sucks in a deep breath.

It’s not the best blow-job he’s ever given; he’s heady and hungry and wants Kisuke’s hands on him; it means he’s not paying as much attention to what his mouth is doing as he could be. But Kisuke’s not complaining, is in fact making very pleasant breathy gasps. Ichigo undoes his jeans and pulls away to concentrate on shucking them off; Kisuke looks up to watch him through long lashes, his mouth half-open. 

“You look good like that,” Kisuke tells him when he finally finishes and gives his ridiculous jeans a kick into the corner for good measure. 

“Naked?” asks Ichigo.

“Yes,” agrees Kisuke in a low tone, and pulls him in closer. 

They end up in a tangle of limbs, Ichigo on top grinding down on Kisuke. Eventually Kisuke works his hand in between them and catches both their dicks together; Ichigo moans. And then gasps as he starts to jerk them off. He laps at Kisuke’s shoulder to stop himself crying out, determined to leave a mark on the pale skin there. 

It feels intensely wonderful, his nerves awash with pleasure, his cock taut and throbbing beneath Kisuke’s firm grasp. The feel of Kisuke’s own length beside him is what’s sending him arching towards orgasm; their nearness, so close and pulling closer with each stroke, each breath. His teeth ghost over Kisuke’s shoulder and he feels the scientist shiver. He bites down and hears Kisuke moan. 

It’s the sound that undoes him, sends him tumbling over the edge and into the free-fall of release. He feels Kisuke come a moment later, their bodies shuddering against each other. 

Then it’s done, and they’re two grown men lying in a heap on the harsh tatami floor, their skin probably already patterned with it. Ichigo gives a low chuckle at the thought. 

“Ichigo-san?” asks Kisuke, sounding slightly drunk.

“Next time,” Ichigo tells him, “we’re getting out the futon.”

  
***

He ends up showering and pulling on his clothes again (even the skin-tight jeans) and coming out to a light necking session in the hallway.

“I really should go,” he says eventually, pulling away. “I promised Renji I would go in tomorrow to finish up the court prep.”

“Tomorrow is Saturday,” Kisuke reminds him.

“And you’ll be working both here and at Unit 12, won’t you? How can I complain when you’ve got two jobs?”

“That was my choice,” says Kisuke, but he doesn’t argue further. “Do you want a ride home?”

“I’ll bus it. But thanks. And this time, really text me.”

Kisuke smiles. “Agreed.”

He leaves feeling happier than he has in years. It’s a wonderful, warm feeling, deep as the sea and encompassing as the sky. He feels he could do anything – climb any mountain, swim any river, win any fight.

He hopes he’ll never forget this happiness.

  
***

As he’s not technically on shift the next day he rolls into work at 9:30. Renji’s already there, as is the weekend shift. His lieutenant waves to him when he catches sight of him through his window, and Ichigo walks over.

“Come in,” says Renji, face hard. “Close the door.”

Ichigo does. Renji seats himself and Ichigo does the same, hooking out the visitor’s chair and slumping down into it. His long legs brush against the desk; he curls them under the chair. The red-head puts his hand on a file on his desk. 

“You need to break it off with Urahara,” he says.

“The fuck, Renji, I thought we were over this. _You_ need to get your head out of your ass and –”

“He’s a murderer, Ichigo. Stone cold killer. That’s why they demoted him and tucked him away in a basement where he wouldn’t see the light of day.”

Ichigo feels a cold sweat break out, feels his mouth dry up and his throat close. “What?” he croaks.

“He killed the captain of Unit 2. She just vanished, and he as good as admitted it. There wasn’t enough evidence for a court case, but everyone knew.”

“The captain of the 2nd – Shihouin Yoruichi?” he asks, disbelieving.

“Yes. It’s all here.” Renji taps the file on his desk. “I can show it to you, but you can’t take it out of this room, and you can’t tell anyone you saw it. This is all unofficial. I couldn’t just let you –”

“Let me what? Be happy? Have a real relationship for once in my life?”

“I couldn’t let you lose your head over a _murderer_ , Ichigo. You need to cut him out of your life. Now. Before it’s too late.”

Ichigo feels like he’s reeling, even though he’s sitting perfectly still. Feels like the floor is falling away from him, dropping him into darkness. 

He thinks of his happiness last night, of the feeling of being on top of the world, invincible. 

“I think,” he says, his voice sounding very far away to his ears, “that it may already be too late.”


	5. Circumstances Can Make Animals of Us All

Sometimes the dead don’t recognize themselves as having passed over. They linger on street corners and in hospital wards and deserted houses, going through the motions of life until something – usually a Soul Squad officer – interrupts them.

Renji’s been that officer on plenty of occasions, has seen the fear and the disbelief and the anger that souls fall back into when confronted with the truth. Some lash out, others withdraw into silence.

Ichigo, when presented with the truth about his would-be boyfriend, falls into the latter category. The blood drains from his face and he stares blindly at the file under Renji’s hand. He mutters something about it being too late.

“What was that?” asks Renji, with patience that he doesn’t usually practice. 

Ichigo looks up, and Renji sees suddenly that he was wrong. The detective’s eyes are fiery, snapping with intensity. Ichigo isn’t taking this lying down; he was just finding his feet. 

“You said he wasn’t convicted. How can they be so sure he did it?”

Renji opens the manila folder, licking his finger as he begins to flip through the printed sheets. “Like I said, she disappeared. Her blood was found in his lab – he was running tests on it,” says Renji, distastefully, turning to photographs of the stained vials. “But they never found a body or a weapon. When they asked him where she was, he said she was gone – and it was his fault. But he never directly confessed, and without a motive or more evidence they couldn’t charge him. They stripped him of his title instead and stuffed him down in the basement where they could keep an eye on him.”

“Why not fire him?” If the brass truly believes Kisuke to be a murderer, keeping him within the system seems the height of incompetence. 

“He was too valuable. I got that from Rangiku, not the file,” he adds, closing it and leaning back until his chair creaks. “He invented half the equipment we use today. He’s irreplaceable.”

Ichigo shakes his head, pulling a hand through his hair roughly. “It doesn’t add up. You should have heard him talk about Shihouin Yoruichi last night – they were best friends; shared everything. She brought him into the Soul Squad. Why would he kill her? He _wouldn’t_ – he isn’t like that,” he says, firmly. 

“You know that there’s no type to murderers. Circumstances can make animals of us all, Ichigo. 

Ichigo glares. “You want him to be guilty,” he accuses. 

“I want you to be happy. Preferably _not_ with a murderer.”

Ichigo stands, chair scraping against the linoleum floor. “I’ll talk to him about it,” he says.

Renji raises his eyebrows. “You think that’s a good idea?” 

“I’m not letting this drop, Renji. He’s no murderer. I won’t believe otherwise unless I hear it from him.”

“If you do, you’ll have to arrest him.”

Ichigo scowls. “It won’t come to that.”

“It might. You should be prepared –”

“And what? Go to meet him with handcuffs on my belt?”

“Go ready to hear the worst,” says Renji, with all the gentleness he can muster. Ichigo gives him a fiery look, turns, and bangs out of his office.

  
***

Ichigo doesn’t want to see Kisuke at the Shoten – not at the house where they spent part of last night in flights of passion and pleasure. He wants to remain grounded, focused. He works away at his court case finding – as he always does – that once he’s immersed in a file there’s much more to do than he initially planned for.

Renji comes by a couple of times and makes to talk to him, but Ichigo glares until he backs off: he’s not in the mood for more accusations. He would do better with Renji’s style of sympathy – drinks, and lots of them – but it’s too early in the day for that. And he needs to keep his head for tonight. 

He’s decided already that he’ll see Kisuke in his lab. Give him all the advantages, and let him play this out how he chooses. 

There has to be an explanation.

  
***

He works into the evening, then goes out to eat alone at a nearby café. He doesn’t taste the food, hardly even notices consuming it. People come and go around him, ordering iced coffees and club sandwiches and sitting down to talk about their weekends. He’s oblivious to it all, spending most of the time blindly scrolling through messages on his phone.

He comes across Karin’s: _How’s it going with your creepy-ass boyfriend?_

He exits out of the chain.

It’s almost eight o’clock by the time he goes back – past time for the night shift to have taken over. Ichigo slides his hands into his pockets and elbows his way through the main doors into the building, scowling at the notice board depicting happy Soul Squad officers interacting cheerfully with members of the public (including dead ones). 

He takes the stairs rather than the elevator – they’re not on CCTV. If anything comes of this, he’s not sure he wants to leave traces. He bangs out the fire door at the bottom and into the tiny foyer space that separates the elevator from the blue doors of Unit 12. It smells of dank and must, and just faintly something chemical. 

From beyond the door, he can hear voices. It hadn’t occurred to him that anyone else might be there. He briefly considers coming back later, but fuck it, Kisuke can send whoever it is on an errand. Ichigo digs out his pass and swipes his way into the lab.

Kisuke’s standing beside a lab table, hands folded in his sleeves, hat shadowing his eyes from the bright fluorescence that rains down. 

Beside him, standing on its own on the lab table, is a small yellow stuffed animal. 

“Ichigo-san!” greets Kisuke, smiling. 

“Who’s this doofus?” asks the toy, pointing a felt-clawed finger at Ichigo. 

Ichigo blinks. 

“Ma, Kon-kun. This is Kurosaki Ichigo-san; he’s a detective with Unit 6.”

“You make _toys_?” asks Ichigo, coming over to inspect the stuffed animal more closely. His shape is that of an anthropomorphized lion. His eyes are black and beady, his body creased and worn; he has a button for a belly-button. 

“Who you calling a toy?” demands the toy, squinting up at him. Ichigo pokes him in the stomach, eliciting a yelp. 

Kisuke leans back against the stool behind him, eyes shining coyly. “Oh, Kon-kun isn’t a toy. In fact, his presence here is thanks to you!”

“What?” says Ichigo. 

“What?” echoes ‘Kon-kun,’ turning to stare at Kisuke. 

“I started with gigais, of course, but they’re not designed to receive foreign objects, and while that could be surmounted, the expense of dedicating them to this project couldn’t be. So I decided to improvise! Luckily I found just what I needed in the alleyway behind the Shoten.”

“…Kon,” says Ichigo, eyes narrowing, looking from the toy to Kisuke. “It’s not short for…”

“King of New York,” says the stuffed lion, striking a bold pose.

“Kaizou Konpaku,” says Kisuke at the same time, producing his fan with a flourish. 

Ichigo considers smacking his forehead. “…You put a Mod Soul in a stuffed animal.” 

“Well, I couldn’t put him in a human. And it seemed hardly fair to put him in an animal – either to him _or_ the animal. It’s actually a surprisingly linear evolution.”

“From human to gigai to stuffed lion?” asks Ichigo. Kisuke smiles. 

“From human to synthetic.”

“Hey, I’m 100% pure,” interrupts Kon. 

“Yeah, sure,” replies Ichigo. He looks down at the lion. “Look, this has been … really weird, actually, but would you might going somewhere else? I have to talk to Kisuke.”

Kisuke gestures towards a door in the lab’s back wall. “He can wait in my office. I’ve set up a user account for him on my computer.”

“Doesn’t IT need to do that?”

“Only if you tell them about it,” replies Kisuke, affecting innocence. “If you would, Kon-kun?” 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine. Just dismiss me like I’m nothing – no biggie.”

“If you behave yourself, I’ll re-activate your internet privileges,” replies Kisuke mildly. 

Kon salutes, eyes gleaming, and hops off the table to hightail it in the direction of the office.

“I caught him watching pornography. Fortunately I was able to scrub the browser history,” Kisuke says, sitting down on his stool and tucking his fan away. “That would _not_ be a conversation I would look forward to with Mayuri-san.”

“Will he eavesdrop?” asks Ichigo.

“I downloaded him several graphic video games, so no – I don’t believe so.” He tilts his head to the side. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Ichigo feels his face freeze into an inexpressive mask. All detectives have them; it’s something they develop early on on the job. The smile fades from Kisuke’s face at the sight of it. “Is something wrong?” he asks. 

“I saw your file. I know what it says. About you. About Shihouin-san.”

Kisuke’s face remains unchanged; he seems unphased. “I see.” He leans back slightly, eyes dark. “I’m a little disappointed that you pried.”

“It says that you’re a murderer, Kisuke! That you killed her – and the only reason you’re not in prison is that they haven’t found her body.” Ichigo takes a breath. “And I didn’t pry – it was shoved in my face.”

“What are friends for?” asks Kisuke, with bitter irony. “As for Yoruichi-san, they won’t find her body.”

“Because?” prompts Ichigo. 

Kisuke looks at him. Then, slowly, he dismounts the stool. “I think you had better come with me.”

Ichigo doesn’t move. “I can’t come with you if you don’t give me any more details. Where are we going?”

“To meet Shihouin Yoruichi, of course.”

  
***

He shouldn’t go. Kisuke can withstand his bankai without even activating his own. As a former captain and member of Unit 2, he’s probably a kido and hakuda expert as well. Ichigo’s got an immense reiatsu and incredible recovery, but he’s never been very disciplined about his style or skills. Kisuke’s his superior in all modes of combat. The former captain could kill him, and dispose of the body.

But he still doesn’t believe Kisuke to be a killer. Still can’t see how it could possibly be true. The affection in his voice as he spoke about Shihouin Yoruichi last night had been real. And, as Renji had said, there was no motive. No reason for that partnership to turn to hate. 

And, far more simply, he just doesn’t believe this man to be a cold-blooded murderer. It’s not because he slept with him, and he hopes it’s not because he’s already head-over-heels about him. It’s just his gut. 

“Where are we going?” he asks Kisuke, as they exit Unit 12.

“The Shoten,” replies Kisuke.

Ichigo digs his keys out of his pocket. “I’ll drive.”

They descend into the building’s underground parking garage, Ichigo spinning his keys idly on his finger, Kisuke silent beside him. 

Ichigo doesn’t know what to say. Protestations of his good faith? Enquiries as to the truth? Some other topic entirely? Every idea seems to turn to ashes in his throat, and he reaches the car and gets in without having said anything. The silence feels heavy and awkward.

  
***

It’s a short drive to the Shoten, especially in the lighter evening traffic. He parks in the street outside and follows Kisuke.

The Urahara Shoten is closed, lights off and door locked. But to his surprise, Kisuke doesn’t head for the shop. He goes, instead, for the back alley. “Tomorrow is garbage day,” is all he says.

In the allotted space, piles of orange bags (it’s bottle and can pick-up on Sunday) have been heaped around a lamppost. Several local strays are nosing around at the bags, while overhead a crow sits watchfully, waiting its turn. 

The cats look up, ears pricked, at their appearance at the head of the alley. As they approach, a tortoiseshell and a ginger hiss and spit, then back away. A lithe black with yellow eyes so bright they seem to glow merely sits, watching regally. 

“There you are,” croons Kisuke, apparently to the cat. He walks over and picks it up, singing tunelessly as he raises it up and dandles it, “ _High high priced but it doesn’t taste good~_ ”

“Kisuke?” says Ichigo, uncertainly. 

Kisuke turns, a wide smile on his face. “It’s very convenient, really, that she showed up yesterday. If she had been gone on one of her extended trips, you might have believed Abarai-san’s claims.”

“I think I’m missing something,” says Ichigo.

“You wanted to meet Yoruichi-san, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but – that’s a cat.”

Kisuke’s smile softens. “Well observed. That, I’m afraid, is my fault.”

“Come now Kisuke,” says the cat, in a low, gravelly voice. “Credit where credit’s due. We both played out parts.” The cat pushes out of his grip, jumps gracefully to the ground, and looks up at Ichigo. “I’ve been waiting to meet you,” it says.

“The cat can talk,” he says, faintly. He looks from it to Kisuke. “What _is_ this?”

“This,” replies Kisuke, “is Shihouin Yoruichi.”

  
***

“You turned the captain of Unit 2 into a cat,” he says fifteen minutes later, sitting at Kisuke’s breakfast table. As befits his traditional home, Kisuke’s main dining table is low to the ground and sits in an adjacent tatami room. But somewhere along the line his kitchen acquired a breakfast nook with a bar-height table and a pair of stools, and it’s there that they sit. With cat-Shihouin seated daintily on the table between them.

“Yes and no,” replies Kisuke. 

Ichigo’s eye twitches. “Which?”

“I helped. You see, Yoruichi-san’s family is renowned for their reiatsu – it’s intense, but they have also become incredibly adept at manipulating it. At weaponizing it. To do so, in some cases they change the very frequency of the reiatsu – make it something other than human. In Yoruichi-san’s case, something feline. And as one’s reiatsu changes, so too does one’s physical form; the two are inexorably linked. Unfortunately, the transformation began to get away from her. She began to lose her mind and her body to it. In a short time, she would have ceased to exist – would have been literally torn apart by it. I wasn’t able to reverse the transformation. The only option was to push it completely in the other direction. From human to cat. As a cat her reiatsu was different enough that together we were able to stabilize it.”

“I always knew you guys got up to weird shit, but this is just bizarre.” Ichigo rests his hands on the table and watches the cat twitch her whiskers. “Still, if she’s alive why does everyone think you killed her?” asks Ichigo, looking from the cat to Kisuke. 

“If I revealed to the world – even to just the brass in Soul Squad – that I had turned a human into a cat, the effects would have been instantaneous, and dire. Yoruichi-san would have been locked up in a lab to act as a test subject for the rest of her life. And I would have been forced surrender my research and barred from further work for ethical violations. Neither were acceptable to us. It was much easier to obfuscate, and take the penalties as they came.”

“So you both lost your positions,” says Ichigo.

Kisuke tilts his head upwards. “Yamamoto-san’s a traditionalist. I can’t quite see him approving a cat for a captaincy. As for myself, Mayuri-san has always hungered for power. I would have found a knife in my back sooner or later. This way I get to continue my work, without the burden of administrative paperwork. It’s not so bad.”

“Except that everyone thinks you’re a murderer,” points out Ichigo.

“There are a few who know my secret – those whose doubts I couldn’t abide. You’re one, now.”

Ichigo feels his cheeks warming. “What I said before – about not prying – it was true. Renji – my boss,” he adds, for Shihouin’s benefit, “cornered me and forced your file down my throat. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have… I would have waited for you to tell me the truth.” He sits back, drawing a hand through his hair, eyes downcast. “I still ended up behaving like an asshole, though.”

“Oh, I don’t know. For someone who was offered an official police file indicating his lover was a murderer, you’ve remained remarkably open to other explanations.”

“Like the explanation that you turned someone into a cat,” says Ichigo, trying to hide the fact that his heart is thumping so hard he feels like his ribs must be vibrating from Kisuke’s casual use of the word _lover_. Kisuke smiles at him; without thought he mirrors it.

“All this lovey-dovey sap is well and good,” interrupts Shihouin Yoruichi, twitching her tail back and forth across the table’s smooth surface, “but you’re conveniently forgetting the fact that Kurosaki’s boss believes Kisuke to be a murderer.”

“How right you are, Yoruichi-san! And I will leave the two of you to figure that out – I’ve overrun my break,” says Kisuke, glancing at a rotating-pendulum clock sitting on a floating shelf in the kitchen. Ichigo is abruptly reminded that he left his job without a second’s protest to explain himself to Ichigo.

“How convenient,” says the cat dryly. 

“I’ll take you back,” Ichigo offers, making to stand.

“Kisuke can find his own way back,” cuts in Shihouin. “We’ve got some things to discuss.”

He looks down at her; her eyes glow like pale moonlight, sharp and watchful. 

_This_ , thinks Ichigo, _was a former captain and head of the Onmitsukido_. Although now a cat, her tone makes it clear that she can still scratch his eyes out if he crosses her. 

“Okay,” he says, weakly, sinking back down. 

Kisuke stands, stool scraping against the tile floor. “Then I’ll see you two later,” he says, and giving a jaunty wave walks out. Ichigo hears the front door open and close. 

He looks back to the cat. “What did you want to talk about, Shihouin-san?”

She sits crook-backed in front of him, her paws tucked neatly in front of her and her tail trailing out behind like a midnight river. “What will you tell your boss about Kisuke?” she asks. 

“That I believe he’s innocent, and it’s none of his damn business to press further. Kisuke’s clearly undergone a complete investigation and they had to release him – Renji doesn’t have the ability or the authority to re-open the case.”

She tilts her head to the side, the bright orbs of her eyes remaining fixed on him. “And will that be good enough to make him drop it?”

Ichigo looks back levelly. “I can be very convincing,” he says. She twitches her whiskers – in amusement, he thinks. 

“You’re a detective – that makes this boss of yours a lieutenant?” 

“Yes.” He’s almost afraid to give her Renji’s name. Afraid of the fate that might lie in store for Renji in a dark alley if he does. 

She turns over a paw to consider the underside, wriggling the dark pads. “If he won’t back down, tell him to talk to Shunsui Kyouraku,” she says. “He’ll see to it that he drops his enquiries.”

“One of Kisuke’s secret-keepers?” he asks. She puts down her paw.

“Something like that.” She stands and strides closer, her movements silent as snowfall. “Now then, Ichigo,” she says, without asking for permission to make use of his first name. In one quick movement she’s leapt from the table to his shoulder, and is twining herself around his neck like a noose. “Let’s talk about you,” she purrs.

“Me?” He sits still, fighting to keep from raising his hands to steady her. 

“You. Or, rather, you and Kisuke. I never expected him to find someone quite so … unconventional. But then, like likes like. I was surprised by how cute you were, when I saw the two of you together last night,” she continues, her voice low. 

“So it _was_ you, last night.”

He feels her whiskers twitch against his neck. She doesn’t deign to answer his question. “It was a good first impression,” she says. “Your second one has not been as favourable.”

“It’s Kisuke I owe an apology to, not you,” he says, abruptly aware of how close her teeth and claws are to his throat. 

“True.” She kneads his shoulder very gently, just the tips of her claws digging into his skin through his t-shirt. “But if you screw this up again, I’ll be the one to hold you to account.”

Ichigo thinks back to his earlier conviction that Kisuke would be entirely capable of ending his life – and doing away with the evidence. “Kisuke can look after himself,” he says. “And I don’t like threats,” he adds, turning to frown at her. 

She snorts. “There aren’t many foolish enough not to be cowed by Shihouin Yoruichi and Urahara Kisuke,” she says, but he can hear the reluctant admiration in her voice. 

“What can I say? I’ve never known what was good for me.” At least, not until he met Kisuke. 

For a moment, there’s only silence, the two of them considering each other. Then her whiskers twitch and her eyes crinkle. “Alright, Ichigo. Get your boss’s nose out of Kisuke’s business, and don’t let anyone else make a fool of you. You’ve got good instincts; trust them.” She jumps down onto the table, and turns elegantly to sit with her tail curved around in front of her. This conversation is clearly over. 

“It was good to meet you, Shihouin-san,” he says, rising.

She looks up. “If you’re serious about this relationship of yours, you had better call me Yoruichi,” she says.

  
***

Renji’s at the bar that night with Rangiku and Hinamori when he receives the text, phone buzzing in his pocket. He fishes it out and thumbs through the screens.

It’s from Ichigo. 

_He’s not a murderer, you ass. So drop it. Or I’m going to Unit 11._

It’s no news to Renji that Ichigo’s had an offer from Unit 11. He’s had them from nearly every unit, job offers landing in his lap like confetti from a party cracker. But he’s never threatened to accept one before, not in negotiation for a raise, or better shifts, or newer equipment. 

Renji texts back: _You saw the file. Convince me._

He only has time to take a swig of his beer before the reply comes in. _That’s not my job. This isn’t your investigation. He’s innocent – so DROP IT._

Renji drops his phone onto the bar, scowling.

“Something wrong?” shouts Rangiku, over the music. 

“My subordinate,” replies Renji, “is a fucking moron.”

“Whose isn’t?” Rangiku knocks back a shot – her fourth of the evening. “C’mon, Renji – do a shot with me.”

“Why the fuck not?” asks Renji, and signals the bartender. It’s time for a pity party.


End file.
